From LA With Love
by Eloise
Summary: Wesley finds out that you only live twice.... Chap 8 added - STORY COMPLETE.
1. You Only Live Twice

**TITLE:**  From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** And here we go again. Chp 1 of 8. Story begins as canon up to 'Ground State' then goes AU. Wildly AU. I have played a bit with the sequence of events in this ep. – _that_Wes/Lilah scene occurs before Wes and Angel's conversation in the sewer. 

Some dialogue from 'Ground State'. Chapter title from Ian Fleming.

**Chapter 1: You Only Live Twice**

He splashed warm water over his now at least five-thirty-the-next-morning shadow, and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Too much alcohol and too little sleep had made his eyes bleary, and there was a friction burn high on his collar bone, next to the pale but permanent network of scars that Faith had so generously provided him with. 

He rubbed the red mark tenderly, remembering the bite of supple leather into his skin, her sigh of satisfaction at his hiss of pain. He had given her a few friction marks of her own last night, though in slightly less conspicuous places. He blinked and rubbed the towel over his face, finishing with a light trim of the beard shadow, leaving enough to make her squirm at his touch. 

She had left his apartment around three, her excuse an early morning meeting. She did not do the sleepover thing, he knew that already. Lilah liked to be in control, on her own ground, in her own space. She was not comfortable with the idea of being seen asleep; vulnerable. He was content with that. It was depressing enough to be sleeping with the enemy; he did not particularly want to be in a place where it was acceptable to wake up next to her.

He pulled away from the reflection in the mirror with an odd feeling of disquiet. Then untaped the dressing on his arm and set to work cleaning and redressing the wound. The thin knife line was healing well, he had drawn the edges together with paper stitches, and he was fairly sure there would not be a scar. There was still some faint bruising around the line, but he put that down to the strong suction which had been applied to the wound. She had laughed about it last night, picking at his scabs with subtle fingers, idly dissecting his reasons for raising Angel, the motivations for which act he had not yet truly admitted to himself. 

He hated when Lilah got it right, seemed to know him too well. That was perhaps what disturbed him most about this whole sordid little mess; that this woman, the opposite of all he thought he desired, all that was good and pure and true, did in fact know him better than anyone. 

He covered the wound with a smaller dressing, and slipped the charcoal grey knitted shirt over his head, carefully easing the cuff past the slim bandage. The smoky scent of strong coffee drifted into the bathroom. A habit he had picked up when he had first come to L.A.; he had always put on the coffee in their old office. Cordelia had insisted for a long time that it was the only reason Angel kept him on the payroll, as neither of them were actually capable of making coffee fit for human consumption. The practice had become a ritual, and he now automatically switched on the machine first thing after waking, even before showering. There was just something quite exquisite about the aroma of coffee in the morning.

She had picked up on that too, damn her, had sent him a wonderful selection of coffees from Fortnum's online. He had wanted to refuse them, send them back as a petulant little point of honour, but she had opened the Café Superb, wafted it under his nose. He had almost swayed on his feet as the aroma hit him. And Lilah had laughed, seductively, knowing he would not be able to resist her gift, and loving it that he wanted to. 

He moved into the kitchen area and poured a cup, adding no sugar or milk. The dull ache of an almost hangover twitched behind his temples, and he swallowed a couple of Advil along with the coffee. Not the healthiest of starts to the day, but then the rest of his days weren't usually particularly healthy. And today promised to be one of those even more unhealthy than usual ones. He had finished the translations for the O'Leary case, and was not particularly relishing the idea of hand to hand combat with a sewer demon that had a taste for extortion and torture. Plus there was the ever present possibility of running into Angel on one of these operations. As Cordelia would have so succinctly put it if she were here, awkward much?  

He lifted the file from his desk and slipped it into the metal briefcase. There wasn't much more he could do to find her. An approach to Dinza could only be made by the dead, and although it sometimes felt like it, he hadn't yet shuffled off this mortal coil. So it would be up to Angel to do the actual saving. As usual. What he had told Lilah last night wasn't a complete lie. Much as he hated to admit it, Angel was necessary. More so than him, at least. He wasn't necessary for much at all, other than getting shot, beat up and generally seriously injured with depressing regularity. That, and condemning his friend's infant son to a hell dimension to be raised by a man who hated Angel to the point of almost fanatical religious fervour. Mustn't forget that.

He shoved the thoughts down swiftly, no point in dwelling on the past. He had years of practice at repressing, and he wasn't about to change the habit of a lifetime. He checked his weapons bag, knowing full well that the contents would not have varied since he packed it last night, but years of conditioning could not easily be broken. Somewhere, hidden deep inside the don't give a damn rogue demon hunter, lived an uptight, stuffy and rather insecure watcher, with an obsessive compulsion for preparation. He rezipped the bag and slung it over his shoulder, and lifted the briefcase, ready to leave for the rendezvous at the sewer tunnels.

The simple inevitability of that location depressed him as much as anything else this morning.  Just once, he would like to like to return home from a day's work not covered in demon slime, or smelling like he had just bathed in rat infested sewer water. Which, more often than not, was what he had just done. He breathed out a small sigh, and thought for at least the tenth time since he had woken how much he really detested his life.

*~*~*~*

He wound the rope around his arm carefully, and listened to Angel babble on about how much time he'd had to think under the sea, and how he thought that they were 'okay' again. That was laughable. He'd abducted and lost Angel's child, and Angel had attempted to smother him. It was going to be a very long time before they were okay again. 

He knew the real reason for him making contact. He wanted to find Cordelia. And Angel knew that Wes, good old reliable Wesley, would have been secretly researching away, gathering details and following leads, keeping a file of the information he had garnered. Oh, he almost pitied Angel; he evidently thought he sounded convincing, when it was glaringly obvious why he was here. 

Wesley took the briefcase from Hawkins, and opened it, handing the slim leather file to Angel, who accepted it with a look of patent confusion on his face. 

'What's this?'

_As if you didn't know, you devious bastard._ He went with the slightly less offensive - 'What you came for.'

He waited until the other opened the file and then added quietly 'That is all I have on Cordelia's disappearance.'

Angel flipped through the pages, then looked up. 'You did your own investigation.' He did his best to sound surprised, but his voice lacked the conviction necessary to carry the deception off. Wesley thought about challenging him on it, but to be honest it didn't seem worth the effort. He had spent a large part of the summer gathering this information, and it would be ridiculous to now withhold it from one who could actually follow some of the leads.

'I don't think she's dead.'  He swallowed down the acid sour jealousy that sparked in reaction to Angel's look of sheer naked hope. 'I can't say for certain, of course, but I don't think she's in our dimension any longer. Beyond that - is a road I couldn't follow. No living thing can.'

Angel was studying the pages intently. 'Who's Dinza?'

This was easier. He was at home here, with the questioning and the explanations, the way things had been before.

'One of the Eleusian mysteries, the dark demi-goddess of the lost.'  Maybe he and Angel could become followers – they certainly fitted the criteria for Dinza worship. 'Only the dead can enter her presence, and those that do she often traps for eternity.' Only fair to warn him.

'Sounds cheery.' 

Wesley continued rolling the rope. 'I managed to locate her lair, but obviously couldn't enter myself.' 

_Despite what your strongest efforts, Angel, I'm not dead yet._

'This Dinza can tell me where Cordy is?'

The density of the man amazed him_. Since when do evil demi-goddesses do casual favours for souled vampires?_

'No. The most she can tell you is where to look.' He purposely did not look at Angel, closed the briefcase and locked it. He meant to leave it there, he truly did. But something in him, some long forgotten spark of comradeship, some deeply repressed worry for the other's safety made him continue.

'Just – beware.' Tried to keep his voice flat, emotionless. 'Dinza isn't remotely trustworthy.'

And that was it. He could hear Angel's sarcastic quips as he walked towards the staircase, but he ignored the instinctive urge to help him. He wasn't going to get sucked into this again. He had chosen his path; there would be no backtracking now. Angel would have to figure this one out on his own. 

He climbed to the top of the staircase, and made his way along the tunnel which would eventually lead into the main sewer system. After a few minutes, he realized that he did not recognize his surroundings. Somewhere back at the top of the staircase, back in his self-indulgently bitter little musings on the nature of friendship, he had taken a wrong turn. 

Bloody hell.

He turned on his heel and began to make his way back, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. The floor here was damp; oily sewer water lapping at the soles of his boots, the acrid sulphur fumes burning in his nostrils. He was stomping morosely through the tunnel, muttering under his breath, when the skittering of claws on metal alerted him to another presence in the sewer. 

Behind him.

He turned slowly, his hand automatically reaching for the axe he now remembered having given to Hawkins. _Idiot.___

The tunnel appeared empty. But a nasty little thought was already implanted in his mind. Did the demon he'd just dispatched have a mate? He slid his hand into his pocket and found a knife, the Murshan Dynasty dagger that Angel had brought him from his retreat in Sri Lanka. He steadfastly ignored the irony and continued deeper into the tunnel. Up ahead there appeared to be a cross section or some sort of opening in the passage. He gripped the knife tighter, and edged his way along the side of the tunnel wall, trying vainly to keep his feet from splashing too loudly.

The opening turned out to be an entrance of sorts; possibly to the demon's lair. He sucked in his breath and swung his body across the doorway, in a reasonable approximation of various American cop shows. He and Gunn had watched these avidly, ostensibly to develop a strategy for staying alive while demon hunting without Angel, but it had become a bit of a habit, TV night with appallingly fat and salt saturated snack foods and detestably ice cold lager. He missed it dreadfully.

The room was clearly the demon's home, but the skittering was not the sound of its mate. A flash of black beady eyes and a pink wormlike tail sent a shudder down his spine, but it was, after all, only a rat. Much as he disliked the creatures, a rat wasn't going to rip his head from his torso and feast on his brains. 

He stepped into the room.

The tiny resistance that his foot encountered should have stopped him. But too late he heard the quiet click as a wire under tension snapped. Too late he thought of the words booby trap. Too late he remembered the weapons cabinet in Angel's basement apartment, his heart beating in rhythm with the tick of a bomb.

The blast from the device was frankly impressive. His internal organs were suddenly gripped and shaken vigorously by an unseen hand, which plucked him from the sewer floor and flung him back down the tunnel as far as the top of the staircase. He hit the wall hard and slid down into a tangle of oddly angled limbs, a discarded puppet thrown in petulance by an unknown deity.

There were a number of thoughts that crossed his mind in the split seconds before he actually hit the tunnel wall. The first was that he was probably going to survive this, as his life was not currently flashing before his eyes. He was sure that when his time came, he was going to be treated to a rerun of all his most spectacular failures, probably in alphabetical order. 

The second thought was that if he did die, he was going to be rather pissed off that he hadn't experienced the life flashing before his eyes thing. It was something he'd been looking forward to viewing, and he would be writing a stern letter of complaint to whoever was responsible for these things in the afterlife.

The third thing was the thought that he might possibly have left the gas on, but obviously now was not the time to worry about that. 

The fourth thought was, quite surprisingly, how much he would miss Lilah if he was actually going to die. He didn't quite manage to repress that one.

And the fifth and final thought was simply: why the hell was Angel kneeling next to him in a puddle of grimy water, his hands moving over his body in an increasingly frantic search for internal injuries, his face twisted into an expression of horrified concern.

And the last thing Wesley heard before slipping into enticing oblivion was his own name, spoken by his former friend in a voice full of anguished desperation.


	2. On Her Majesty's Secret Service

**TITLE:**  From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own Bond. I still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter title from Ian Fleming. And here we would go slightly AU… Many thanks to LonelyBrit for the lovely beta

**Chapter 2: On Her Majesty's Secret Service**

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce woke up, and then sincerely wished he hadn't.

Every part of him hurt. Every muscle, every sinew, every joint; every damn cell in his body resonated with quite unbelievably impressive agony. He would be hard pressed to single out which particular area of his anatomy ached most.

Perhaps his legs, which felt as if they had been operated on by a demented child wielding a rusty chainsaw. Or his chest, which had apparently been used as a trampoline by some overly energetic elephants. No, he decided. It was the little ice picks hacking away at his brain that were currently causing the most pain.

He foolishly opened an eye, and instantly regretted it, as someone jabbed a red hot needle into his eyeball. Closed it again and waited for the pain to subside. Then repeated the action, with an infinite degree of care. This time the needle that pierced his eyeball was an altogether more comfortable room temperature. He allowed himself time to adjust to the pain before attempting to open his other eye. 

He remembered a martial arts instructor at the Watcher's Academy who'd expounded the doubtful theory that pain was something you did to yourself. Other people did the pain-causing things to you; hit you, stabbed you, burned you, tortured you, blew you up and shot you in the gut; but the experience of that pain was of your own volition. 

Therefore, he had postulated, it was within your own power to stop the pain.

Even as an excessively eager sixteen year old, desperate to succeed, Wesley had known that this was a complete load of bollocks.

Pain was an actual physical event, and all you did was cope with it in the best way you could. It was possible to manage pain; he'd had enough experience in that area both recently and in his past; but you didn't stop it, any more than you stopped a runaway juggernaut on a forty-five degree gradient. 

And so he waited until the pain was slightly less acute, and then took a careful look at his surroundings. The recurring motif in the room's décor was the colour white. Walls, window frames, blinds, curtains around the bed… and now he realized with a sense of disillusionment that this was not heaven. The curtains around the bed were a sure sign that he was, once again, and rather depressingly, in hospital.

Another clue to his surroundings was the large and exceedingly formidable nurse who had just sailed into his room like the Ark Royal returning victorious from battle. She marched over, her white apron positively rustling with starch, and seized his wrist in a firm grip.

'If we're going to arm wrestle, I'll warn you now, I'm not much competition in this state.' His voice sounded high pitched and croaky at the same time, as if his vocal chords had regressed to their pre-adolescent timbre. They also hurt like hell.

She gave him a stern look, and consulted her watch as she took his pulse. 

'So, we're awake, are we? Doctor will be pleased. How are we feeling?'

'Don't know about you, but I'm feeling that death would be a preferable alternative to my current state.'

She tutted at him, and gave his wrist an impatient little shake as she eyed her watch. 

'Now then, there'll be none of that. There's to be no feeling sorry for ourselves, Mr Pryce.'

He was suddenly reminded of Matron in the school sanatorium. Who had regarded any symptoms other than actual clinical death as simply an excuse for malingering. He recalled with painful clarity the acute appendicitis which she had misdiagnosed as nervous stomach, and had treated with two large tablespoons of castor oil. As if in protest at this negligence, the inflamed and highly offended organ had given up the ghost and ruptured dramatically in the middle of second period Latin. Resulting in a swift trip to the local hospital, where the remains of the appendix were duly extracted surgically. 

He had spent three days in intensive care receiving treatment for blood poisoning, and a further three weeks in hospital recovering from the operation. And he had received a stiff and rather severe reprimand from his father, who had been called away from official council business to sign the surgical consent forms. The gist of the lecture being that Wesley was somehow to blame for not making his illness apparent enough. 

He eyed the nurse with blatant ill-will, hoping that she would take the hint and leave him alone. She pursed her lips and pulled out a thermometer, which she shoved into his mouth quite firmly. 

'Now, Mr Pryce. Doctor is on his way. Let's get you ready.' She pronounced Doctor with a very definite capital letter, affording the man the sort of reverence usually reserved for major deities. The thermometer prevented him from protesting as she lifted the pillows from under his head and began to fluff them up.

_(and suddenly the white is gone everything is black he is drowning under the sea)_

He blinked and looked again at the nurse, who had settled him into a sitting position. A strange moment of déjà vu, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and he wriggled himself into a more comfortable position before the arrival of The Doctor. He fully expected to see Sir Lancelot Sprat come strolling through the door, complete with three piece suit, pocket watch and at least four terrified medical students in tow.

The entrance of a fresh faced sixth former was therefore a surprise to him, although not as much of a surprise as the deference with which the battleship treated this callow youth. It took a few moments for the realization to dawn that this was indeed The Doctor, and not one of his interns.

'Ah, Sister, he's awake, then. And how are we feeling today?' 

Wesley wondered if there was a script that all health care professionals had to follow, as he had repeated almost word for word Sister's little speech. There was also something else niggling at the back of his mind, something about their speech patterns. His use of the term Sister, her brisk no-nonsense matronly demeanour. 

Their accents. That was it. They were both English. And what were the odds that two ex-pats would be working in the same hospital in LA.? He removed the thermometer from his mouth.

'Where am I?' His voice still held that muppet-like quality, but it no longer felt as if he was swallowing broken glass.

'In hospital,' the Doctor replied and Wesley sighed. 

'I'm well aware of that, Doctor,' he leaned on the title, making it clear that he wasn't impressed. 'I was just wondering where in the world I was.'

The teenager looked completely non-plussed, making Wesley long for the sharp retorts of Sister. At least she gave the impression of being in command.

'Don't be ridiculous, Mr Pryce,' she tutted. 'You know perfectly well where you are. St. Thomas' Hospital, Lambeth.' 

Lambeth. London. England. _Not __L.A._

'But I was in the tunnel, with Angel…'

The Doctor shook his head and threw Sister a worried look. 'I didn't realize he'd had a near-death experience.' He addressed Wesley directly. 'Was there a bright light at the end of the tunnel? This angel, did he say anything?'

Wesley groaned audibly. The man was clearly an imbecile. He shifted his gaze to Sister and appealed to her instead.

'I was injured… at work.' As good a deception as any. 'Perhaps my... um… colleagues explained?'

She gave him a surprisingly perceptive smile. 'Oh yes, your _colleagues_ were very insistent that you get the best of treatment.'

The last thing Wesley remembered was himself, Angel and Gunn in the sewer tunnel, on the trail of the demon from Cordelia's most recent vision. He had heard a noise and gone off down a tunnel on his own to investigate. Rather foolishly, he now realized, remembering how his foot had snapped the trip wire. 

'How long have I been here?' He almost didn't want to know the answer to that question.

'You've been here for almost three weeks. Unconscious for the first week, then delirious.' The Doctor eyed him with suspicion. 'This is the most lucid you've been so far.' He seemed somewhat unconvinced.

'And my… colleagues, have they visited?' Even to his own ears that sounded pathetically pleading. 

'Oh, come now, Mr Pryce, surely you know that would be impossible.' Sister gave him another worryingly knowing look. She busied herself with making his bed, despite the fact that he was still in it, tucking the corners of the blanket under the mattress and giving it a firm pat.

'Don't worry, you'll see your colleagues soon enough. We'll have you back at _work _in no time. Now, do try and get some rest. You have some physiotherapy scheduled for this afternoon, and you'll need all your strength for that.'

With that, she pulled the blinds and folded her arms across her impressively ample bosom, clearly waiting for him to comply. 

Wesley sighed in resignation and closed his eyes obediently. Hoping that when he woke again, this would all simply turn out to be a rather unpleasant dream.

*~*~*~*

The discovery that this was in fact reality, was depressing in the extreme. 

He spent three further painful weeks in the hospital, undergoing physical therapy under the care of an ardent devotee of the Marquis de Sade. These rounds of torture were regularly punctuated with meals that had obviously been prepared by a descendant of Dr Crippen. If the physio didn't kill him, the bloody food would.

So when The Doctor informed him that he was well enough to be released, he should have been ecstatic.

But he wasn't. For one thing, he hadn't a clue where he was going to go now, or for that matter how he would get there. During the three weeks he'd spent with the Spanish Inquisition, he'd had no visitors. No 'phone calls to see how he was. No word from his friends. That thought, more than any other, chilled him to the bone.

He knew that something was very wrong. Each time he tried to enquire as to why he'd ended up in St. Thomas'; he was met with blank stares, or worse, shrewd looks and perceptive nods. As if they were privy to some vital piece of information that he had somehow forgotten. When he finally got up the nerve to ask about his friends, he had been told that his colleagues would call to collect him this afternoon.

'Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

He turned at the sound of the voice, somehow familiar, yet alien, as if the past was indeed a foreign country. A voice from three years ago, full of false sympathy then, now bitter with barely concealed displeasure. 

'Collins.' His own voice was still gravely from an injury on his neck. The one he didn't remember getting.

'The firm have sent a car.' 

The man must have been seriously demoted after the Faith debacle, if he was reduced to the role of chauffeur. For a man the council had fired over three years ago.

'I'm sorry, Collins, but you're wasting your time. I don't work for the 'firm' any more.' He leaned a little on the euphemism.

'Don't be stupid, Pryce. No one blames you for what happened in L.A. It was unavoidable.'

Wesley wondered how he could lie so blatantly. Unavoidable was not how his father had described the incident during their subsequent 'phone conversation. No, he had used words like betrayal, failure, and disgrace. And, of course, disappointment. One of his favourites.

'They want you brought in. There's a… situation.' His mouth twisted on the last word, as if he didn't want to admit to himself that Wesley was needed.

Wesley would have fallen over if he hadn't already been leaning on the wall for support. The thought that the Council might require his assistance was so improbable that he had to bite his lip to prevent threatening hysteria.

'And what if I don't want to be 'brought in'?' He raised his chin defiantly and hoped to God he sounded convincing. Collins slipped his hand into his jacket and produced a small, but still fairly deadly handgun.

'Afraid you don't get a choice, Pryce. You're the only one that can handle this particular situation.'

Wesley grinned triumphantly. 'Hah! Then you can't shoot me!'

Collins threw him a look of bored disgust. 'Right. But I can hit you over the head and drag your unconscious body back to HQ.' He rolled his eyes. 'Now which would you prefer? Because either is good for me.'

Wesley knew that in his current physical state he was in no condition to provide any sort of resistance to Collins. He sighed heavily and pushed himself away from the wall. 

'Very well. I'll come quietly.'

And he couldn't help but notice the disappointment in Collins' eyes.

*~*~*~*

The journey to Council Headquarters had been short, but far from sweet. Collins had maintained a grimly determined silence, despite Wesley's attempts to goad him into letting slip any details. In the end he too had lapsed into a matching sullen ill humour, rivalling that of a certain brooding vampire.

They had now arrived in a parking garage and Collins had ushered him into the lift, his hand hovering over the butt of his gun. As the lift ascended, Wesley felt the butterfly-winged flutter of nerves in this stomach. He had not been in this building since he had been ordered to report to Sunnydale, and he was not relishing the prospect of confronting his then superiors now. A wave of dizzying nausea swept over him as the lift rose to the eighth floor. The floor on which his father's office was situated. He chewed on his lip, a childhood habit that had infuriated his father, then tried to relax as he noticed the mocking glance that Collins gave him. There was a tastefully quiet metallic ping and the lift doors opened.

'I think you know your way from here.' Collins gave him a sly little grin that really needed to be punched from his smug face. But this was neither the time nor the place. Wesley squared his shoulders, knocked firmly on the heavy oak-panelled door, took a deep breath and entered the room.

'Wesley! How are you feeling?'

Of all the people he had been expecting to see, he had to admit that she had not been one of them. Her hair was wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, and a pair of glasses perched rather incongruously on the end of her nose. He blinked and put his hand up to adjust his own no longer present spectacles.

'Cordelia! What the hell…?'

'Language, Wesley…' She frowned in mock severity and jerked her thumb over her shoulder at a large door, which bore a brass plate inexplicably inscribed with the legend 'Universal Exports'. 'You know what he's like…'

'Wha…wher…who…whe…how…' he ran through the gamut of interrogatives, his jaw flapping like a fish stranded on dry land. She lifted a finger and pushed her own chin up.

'Mouth closed, Wesley. You're catching flies…' she said, sounding for all the world like his mother. 'And you'd better get in there. He's not in a good mood.' As if to attest to her words, the intercom on her desk buzzed impatiently.

'Is that Pryce now, Miss Chasepenny? It's about damn time! Send him in!'

Cordelia gave him an apologetic smile. 'Better not keep him waiting.'

Wesley tried again. 'Cordelia…you… I…uh,' he floundered.

The voice on the intercom was icy.

'Pryce! If you would be so kind as to stop chatting up my secretary and get yourself into my office this instant!'

There came a point, Wesley mused, when you stopped questioning and reasoning and trying to find a logical explanation; and just embraced the welcome knowledge that you had finally succumbed to complete and utter lunacy. As he opened the door, Wesley reached that point.

Behind the large leather-topped desk, sat one Rupert Giles, wearing exactly the same expression that his Prep school headmaster had worn after Wesley had been caught out of bounds in the school library after lights out. It had been done for a dare, and Wesley had not sat easily for a number of days after that particular misdemeanour. 

Looking at the exasperated expression on Giles' face, Wesley couldn't help but wonder if something similar was in store for him now, his current surroundings reminding him of his headmaster's study not a little. He couldn't quite control the little shudder that ran through his body at that thought. He folded his hands behind his back almost automatically and waited.

'Ah. At last.' Giles looked at him sternly over the top of his spectacles. 'How are you feeling now?' There wasn't much sincerity in his enquiry, but as he seemed to expect a response, Wesley answered.

'Much better, thank you.' Almost as an afterthought he added 'Sir.'

'Good, good.' Giles was clearly relieved to have the tricky interpersonal part of the conversation over with, so he could press on with more important things. 'Fighting fit, then?'

Wesley didn't dare disabuse him of that notion.

'It's just…' Giles paused and removed his glasses, polishing them with a crisp square of linen he produced from the pocket of his waistcoat. 'Well, we've got a bit of a situation.'

'So Collins informed me.'

'Oh, he did, did he?' The older man's voice was edged with steel, and Wesley barely managed to smother a grin of delight at having inadvertently dropped Collins in it.

'And what else did Collins tell you?' Giles' eyes flashed dangerously and Wesley suddenly remembered the tales of Ripper that had been whispered around the Watcher's Academy. He controlled the shake in his voice quite successfully.

'That was really all, sir. Just that there was a situation. And that apparently I was necessary.'

'I would have preferred not to use you, so soon after your…accident, but I'm afraid we have no choice. This problem requires your… particular assistance.' He looked up, and this time there was a softness in his gaze. 'Oh, do sit down, Pryce, for God's sake!'

Wesley obeyed immediately, seating himself stiffly in one of the leather club chairs opposite the broad desk. Giles rose from behind it and went to the decanter and tray on the sideboard, pouring two generous measures of Dimple Haig into heavy cut crystal tumblers. He handed one to Wesley and sat down in the adjacent armchair, sloshing the alcohol around the glass morosely. Wesley took a tentative sip of his scotch and waited politely for the man to continue.

'You're well aware of our links with the American branch of the 'firm'?' Using the euphemism that both Collins and the Sister had. Wesley nodded, although truthfully nothing was making much sense to him at the moment. 'One of our agents…' Giles hesitated and looked into his glass as if searching for inspiration there. 'A man you've worked with… on a… well, fairly frequently, has gone missing.'

There could only be one man.

'Angel.'

'That would be his code name, yes.'

'Angel… is missing?' That explained it. Why they hadn't been to see him in the hospital, why there had been no contact. And then the joyous relief was replaced with cold dread. 'What happened?'

Giles took a deep swallow of his scotch. 'We suspect he has been abducted. By whom, we're not entirely sure. You knew, of course, that the SPECTRE organization had splintered into factions after that Russian debacle…'

'Er… Spectre?' Wesley couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

''Really, Pryce! Do pay attention! The Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion. Well, we suspect one of the two main splinter groups…'

'Which are?'

Giles suddenly looked obscurely embarrassed. 'The Special Unit for Revenge and Torture,' he halted briefly, his face reddening even further, 'and the Prime Executive for Recreational Vengeance and Extortion.'

'SPURT and PERVE?' 

Dear God, he mustn't laugh. Wesley surreptitiously pinched the skin under the wristband of his watch in an effort to control his laughter.

'Look, Pryce,' Giles' voice was stern and briskly business-like once more. 'It doesn't matter what they're called. The fact is they have one of our men. One who is in possession of information we'd rather didn't fall into enemy hands. You've worked with this agent for three years and you probably know him better than anybody. If anyone can trace his whereabouts, then it's you.'

Giles stood again and fetched a leather bound folder from the desk top. 

'In there you'll find details on the case, information we have managed to gather. Unfortunately, it isn't much.' He passed the folder to Wesley, who sat immobile, trying to absorb all of this. 'You're booked on a flight to Florida early tomorrow morning. There you'll rendezvous with another American agent and pursue any leads he has.' 

'Pryce!' Wesley jumped, and shook himself out of his reverie. 'You'll report immediately to section Q for equipment and weaponry. And do try not to break anything expensive this time,' he warned wearily.

Wesley realized that he was being dismissed and he stood up, clutching the file to his chest protectively.

'I'll do my best, sir.' He hoped his reply was adequately non-committal and moved towards the study door.

'One more thing.' Wesley half-turned to face the elder man.' This is important. The fate of the free world rests with you, 007.'

Wesley blinked. Slowly. That confirmed it. He had obviously fallen into some strange parallel dimension where everyone was clearly labouring under some form of paranoid delusional fantasy. Either that, or he was indeed officially and certifiably insane.

And what was it that Giles had said?

Oh, yes.

_'The state of the free world rests with you_.'

So, no pressure, then.


	3. The Man with Golden Gunn

**TITLE:**  From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own Bond, and still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 3 of 8. Title from Ian Fleming. Quoted dialogue from 'Deep Down'. And the plot thickens…

**Chapter 3: The Man with Golden Gunn**

He closed the door carefully behind him and looked again at the woman for whom he had once harboured an illicit desire. Of course, these days she was more like a sister, but still…

'Cordelia, when did you start wearing glasses? And your hair… looks… um… rather formal…'

His voice tailed off as she fixed him with a stern glare.

'Oh, please, Wesley. I'm not one of your little groupies from the steno pool. You can't take off my glasses and shake out my hair and then start with the 'My God, Chasepenny, but you're gorgeous!' crap. I'm not buying it.' 

She stood up and strode over to the walnut filing cabinet that stood in the corner of the office. Pulled open the top drawer and began flicking through the contents with an efficiency which was uncharacteristic in the extreme.

'Ah, here they are. She held aloft a small grey leather box which Wesley recognized as a spectacles case. 'G said to make sure you got these. They're part of your persona this mission.' She nodded to the file which dangled uselessly in his hand. 'And you'll need to shave, Wesley. The hospital didn't give you a razor?'

Truth be told, he had been having a bit of an odd reaction to razors since the accident. The morning after he had woken up in St Thomas', an orderly had arrived with the necessary accoutrements for a shave. Wesley had just undergone a rather vigorous bed bath, which he felt could better be described as an intimate personal assault, but Sister had tutted at his protests and told him not to be such a baby. So it was in a weakened state that he perceived the orderly approaching him, razor poised at his throat. 

When he had come to, he had been distressed to see the orderly crouching against the wall in abject terror, clutching his hand to a reddening bruise on his cheek, the shaving supplies scattered randomly on the grey linoleum.

Sister had appeared on the scene almost immediately; Wesley had welcomed his former tormentor with desperate relief, glad to abdicate responsibility to her no-nonsense attitude and practicality. She had ensured that the orderly was not badly hurt; had listened to his trembling description of the incident with a calm ear and a soothing word; sent him off duty for a cup of tea and a cold compress. Then had gathered the instruments from the floor and placed them back on the tray with cool detachment, before returning to his bedside and pulling the covers over him.

'Now, then, Mr Pryce. There'll be no more of that sort of behaviour, do I make myself clear?'

He had simply stared incredulously at her, wondering what the hell she was on about. 

'You'll not be punching any more of my staff, and they'll not be attempting to approach you with sharp objects.'

'I don't know what you mean…' he had begun, but she put her finger to her own lips. 

'That's enough. You've been through an awful ordeal, there are bound to be some psychological after-effects.' She spoke gently now, cool hands swishing the bedclothes efficiently around his chest. Wesley had not understood her words, but he had raised his fingers to trace a jagged line that ran the length of his jaw. 

His fingers played there now, unconsciously, the sharp scar edge prominent even under the bristle. 

'Wesley!'

He blinked and looked at her. She was standing in front of him, arms folded over her chest in tight frustration. 

'Sorry, Cordelia. My mind was…elsewhere.'

'Yeah, well you better get your mind herewhere pretty damn quick. _He's_ not going to be happy if you stuff this one up. We all know the incident in L.A. wasn't your fault, but still…'

She let the unspoken words hang between them, and handed him the glasses. 

'Now. You're Peregrine Wyndham, second son of the Earl of Midwich. And before you get any ideas about the high life and casinos and fancy restaurants, the family's broke. Elder brother gambled away the family estate and you now eke out a living as an antiquities and weaponry expert for the British museum. Not the most glamorous cover ever, but G thought it would suit you well.'

Well, it appeared that even in this lunatic mirrorverse some things made sense. He took the proffered glasses and slipped them onto his nose. 

They felt odd; uncomfortable, as if he hadn't worn them in a long time. Which was ridiculous, as the accident had only occurred a few weeks ago. Cordelia gave him an appraising look

'Just the thing, Wesley. You should wear glasses more. Really.'

She smiled broadly and gave his cheek a sisterly pat.

'Now get your ass down to Q Section ASAP,' she paused, looking over at Giles' office. 'Or he'll have it tanned for you.'

Wesley honestly wasn't sure if she was joking.

*~*~*~*

The axe flew past his head as he side-stepped to the right, narrowly avoiding a Van Gogh incident.

'Oh, Wesley, you almost got hacked to pieces!' 

He turned to see a white-coated bespectacled Fred emerge from behind a spring loaded firing mechanism, oversized clipboard in hand. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun at the top of her head, from which stray strands had managed to escape, snaking down the sides of her face in loose corkscrew curls. He would have said that she looked beautiful, except that she wore an angry scowl which he was unaccustomed to seeing. At least on _her_ face.

'You should pay more attention! No wonder you're always breaking things!'

He thought that this was a bit unfair, as he had no idea to what she was referring, but he judged that perhaps discretion here was indeed the better part of valour.

'Hello, Fred.'

'Don't you hello Fred me! All innocence and devilish charm. Don't think that's going to get round me!'

She was blushing furiously, the rosy hue spreading from high cheekbones to her whole face.

'Do you have _any_ idea of how the cost of equipment nowadays, Wesley? I mean, that car was worth over a hundred thousand pounds. Money out of my budget that I won't be getting back.'

She was clearly furious with him, and he had no notion why. The hapless smile he offered in an attempt to defuse her anger simply increased her exasperation.

'You really don't care anymore, do you?'

_(and suddenly an ache is in his arm, sharp and new and in his heart a dark despairing sadness)_

He blinked hard, and looked down at his arm, convinced the blade of the axe had somehow managed to wing him, slicing the flesh of his forearm with surgical sharpness. There was nothing but a faint line, a thin scar barely worth bothering about. One of the many he had received over his years with Angel Investigations. Only he couldn't quite remember getting this one.

'Wesley, will you please pay attention!'

'Wha… I'm sorry, Fred, what were you saying?' He looked up again at her.

'G says you're not to have any more cars, after last time. But you'll need a few other things. Come on.'

She pulled his arm and he trailed after her obediently. Over to an area where various white-coated technicians were fiddling about with concealed firearms and producing deadly looking blades from innocuous places.

'Now. First of all, we have this. She handed him a strange contraption which looked like an arm brace. Or indeed a medieval instrument of torture. He held out his arm and she snapped it closed at the elbow and wrist.

'Hold your arm out in front of you,' she ordered, and he did as he was told. 'And flex the muscles of your upper arm… carefully,' she cautioned. 'It's only a proto-type.'

As he contracted the muscle, he heard a quiet click, and a blade shot out of the brace at his wrist. It was a foot long, and made of a gun metal grey element that had been polished to a high sheen.

'It's titanium,' Fred explained. 'One of the hardest elements. It will cut through steel, iron, any of the usual materials that restraints are made from.' 

Wesley didn't really want to imagine why he would be needing to cut through restraints, but wisely kept these thoughts to himself. Fred was unstrapping the device and already demonstrating a second gadget, which appeared to be a cigarette case. 

'It's silver, polished to make it highly reflective.' She flicked it open and deftly removed the black inner section to reveal a small microchip. 'Homing device. We're not going to make the same mistake twice.'

Again, he was lost, but faked a sage nod.

'And this,' she said as she handed the slim barrelled steel pen to him, 'doubles as an incredibly powerful laser beam, with a range of up to one hundred yards. Of course, it will be more powerful at a closer range.'

'And its other use?' Wesley encouraged her gently. She fixed him with an exasperated glare.

'It's a pen, Wesley. You write with it.'

'Oh.' 

She shook her head as if despairing of him, then produced another item, about the size of a small Christmas cracker. 'We've been working on this for a while now. It's a mini aqualung; it will allow you enough oxygen to stay underwater for two hours. Now, be careful with this one, Wesley, the container is pressurized.'

He was looking at a small box on the table beside her. It was flat black matte, and was so streamlined that it was positively aerodynamic. Wesley wondered how it would feel to the touch, as it looked almost frictionless. He stretched out an inquisitive finger, feeling the heat that radiated from the object.

'Wesley!' The slap he received on the back of his hand from her clipboard made him yelp in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice. 'Don't touch!'

He drew his hand back, and rubbed the reddened skin tenderly. 'Sorry. Was it something dangerous? Did I almost set it off?'

She shook her head and lifted the box off the table, flipping the top back with one flick of her forefinger. 

'No. It's my lunch.'

He peered into the lunchbox and saw the tacos, hot sauce still steaming. Some things never change. She snapped the lid shut, and pursed her lips determinedly. 'You'll need to go up to the armoury to collect your gun. You'll take the Walther PPK 7.65. It's heavier than the Beretta, and it's best worn at the waist rather than in a shoulder holster. But it doesn't stick. Not like the Beretta.' And here she shook her head, as if in disbelief. Then gave him a brief encouraging pat on his shoulder.

'Well, that's the best we can do for you.' Her voice softened a little, and she smiled that startlingly bright smile that he loved to see on her face. '_Do_ try to be a bit more careful this time, 007.'

He was starting to piece it together. Something had happened to him on his last 'mission', which apparently had been in L.A., and must have involved his gun sticking, his car getting wrecked or stolen, and him ending up in hospital. And from the way everyone kept saying that it wasn't his fault, it was becoming very clear to him that they all thought it was.

*~*~*~*

Obviously MI5, 6, or whatever number they had currently reached treated their employees with a bit more respect than the Watcher's Council ever had. He remembered his first flight to the USA, travelling in economy class, wedged between a huge Hawaiian-shirted tourist and his equally enormous wife. 

A somewhat disgruntled air steward, who clearly held a deep-seated grudge against the English in general and Wesley in particular, had placed what might have been a week old ham sandwich and a square of lime jelly in front of him as some sort of unspoken challenge.

The heat and turbulence were already affecting his system quite considerably, and he had stared at the delicately curling edge of the sandwich and the shuddering green congealed mass with barely controlled horror. Enormous Tourist Wife had eyed his tray with anxious greed and leaned over to him.

'Are you going to eat that, hon?' she had enquired, then helped herself to his portion, just as the plane hit a particularly spectacular patch of turbulence, and her extraneous rolls of flesh had flopped onto him as the plane banked sharply. He had turned the colour of the jelly dessert and made an undignified dash for the loo, where he had filled the thoughtfully provided sick bag. He had arrived in Los Angeles in a state of rumpled dishevelment that had taken an hour of grooming to correct.

This time, however, he was travelling in style. First class, fully reclining seat; sylph-like hostesses wafting by on up draughts of L'air Du Temps, offering him smoked salmon, caviar and chilled champagne. It was 'Are you comfortable, Mr Wyndam? Another pillow? Can I bring you more pate de fois gras, hot lemon-scented towels; a shiatsu massage, perhaps?'

The utter luxury of the flight only served to emphasise the hell that was the Arrivals area of Miami International Airport. 

Someone had omitted to inform him that the airport was actually a small totalitarian state, run by Kafkaesque clerks and guards. In the line for Immigration, he learned to his cost the foolishness of disobeying a sign. 'Do not cross line until called' it read, and as he stepped over the line to enquire whether he could move to an unoccupied booth, an unholy shriek stayed his foot in mid-air.

'Get behind line!' 

A grey uniformed person of indistinguishable sex marched over and waved its finger at the sign. Wesley stepped back, and began to apologize. The clerk simply pushed him back over the line. After a moment had passed there was another apoplectic screech.

'You! Now! Booth 3! Move!' 

Wesley fought the urge to raise his right arm in a Nazi salute, guessing that it probably would not be taken as a joke. He made his way to the correct booth, and spent the next half hour convincing the clerk that he was neither a drugs smuggler nor indeed a member of a terrorist organization.

Finally, and somewhat grudgingly they let him through to the luggage collection area, where he was overjoyed to see a familiar face in the crowd. He raised him arm high into the air and waved cheerily.

'Gunn!' The man did not react. 'Over here!' He still didn't hear him. Wesley shouted as loud as he could. 'Gunn!'

Three hours and a narrowly avoided body cavity search later, Wesley realized it hadn't been such a good idea to shout the name of a lethal weapon across a crowded airport. The reaction would have been quite entertaining if he hadn't been immediately seized by security guards. Everyone had dropped to the floor, apart from Gunn himself, who had shaken his head in patent disbelief. 

He had spent quite a bit of time persuading them that Peregrine Wyndham did indeed have diplomatic immunity, and any attempt to search his luggage would have serious repercussions for the continued amicability of Anglo-American foreign affairs.

He did not speak as he led Wesley from the airport, remained stoically silent until they were installed in the back of the dark grey sedan.

'What the hell were you thinking, English! Have you lost it completely?' 

Wesley so wanted to answer yes to that, but instead shrugged his shoulders non-committally.  

'You know the routine – we do the code before you go screaming my _real _name at the top of your voice.'

'The…code?' He knew he should have read Giles' notes.

'Dammit, man, you used to be sharper than this! What the hell happened to you?' Immediately he stopped, put his hand over his mouth as if to pull back the words he'd already spoken. 'Ah, Wes, man, forget it, okay? Let's just start over.' He held out his hand and Wesley slid into their little routine without thinking. 

'I am sorry, Gunn, I'm still not feeling quite myself. But Giles seems to think I'm the only one who can handle this situation with Angel.'

The other man turned away to gaze out the window. 'You know him better than anyone. You guys have a lot of history together.' There was something in his tone that made Wesley pause. It wasn't exactly sadness, or anger, or even exasperation. But it made him think that Gunn knew more about the previous operation than he was letting on. Gunn blinked and turned back to face Wesley.

'There's a nightclub down on South Beach. Soul Music. Owned by a man we believe is one of SPURT's top agents. We haven't been able to pin anything on him yet, but we know he's been involved in most of the rackets going on in this town. Drug smuggling, money laundering, prostitution, you name it, he's got a...' here Gunn paused, and gave a little quirk of a smile. '…finger in every pie.'

'Now our nasty little agent has a rich man's hobby, collecting rare antique weaponry. Swords, daggers, any sort of blade. You could say it's kind of an obsession with him.' Again came the knowing little smile. 'We received intelligence that he has recently acquired a ceremonial scythe on the black market. An item that he is keen to have investigated. Your cover was chosen for a reason, _Peregrine._' Gunn emphasized his name with badly suppressed laughter, and Wesley drew himself up straight in his chair. 

'It's not like I had a choice, you know,' he retorted hotly.

'Hey, man, I'm saying nothing.' He held up his palms in mock defeat.

'What is your codename, by the way?' Wesley looked at his companion pointedly, and the other man shifted in the leather upholstery, then muttered something indistinguishable.

'I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Could you repeat it?'

'Golden Gunn.' He curled his lip and dared Wesley to laugh.

'Well, that's really quite impressive, Charles,' he answered, trying desperately to keep a straight face.

'Go to hell, English,' Gunn growled, but Wesley could tell his heart wasn't in the insult. He leaned over and patted his friend's shoulder in commiseration. 

'Now, then. Speaking of names, this agent, the one who owns the club. What's he called?'

Gunn looked over at him and smiled.

'Steelfinger. Mac Steelfinger.'


	4. Steelfinger

**TITLE:**  From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 4 of 8. Title mangled by me and nicked from Ian Fleming. Quotation from Exodus ch21v22-24

**Chapter 5: Steelfinger**

He had followed Gunn's instructions and dressed in what he hoped was an appropriate fashion for what he really wanted to call a trendy hot spot, but knew that it would earn him a derisive snort from his American counterpart. No tie, no suit, he had been told, but no jeans either. He had decided on a soft blue grey oxford shirt, worn with the ubiquitous grey tropical weight worsted trousers and a navy casual cut jacket, all supplied by Savile Row tailors Denman and Goddard. What he was currently wearing would have probably cost him half of his year's salary at Angel Investigations. Perhaps there were some perks to being trapped in this lunatic universe.

He had strapped on the extendable titanium blade thingummy that Fred had given him. He'd given it a couple of trial runs, and was hoping that the company would be paying for the broken lamp and the sofa cushion that he'd managed to run through. He had come to the conclusion that everything would be fine as long as he didn't try to shake anyone's hand. Or wave at them. He shoved the blade back home as gingerly as possible and gathered the other items Fred had given him. He had decided against bringing the aqualung, but the cigarette case and pen laser were probably going to be useful.

Gunn was waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel, dressed with a quiet understated elegance that surprised him. He was used to seeing the man in his work clothes, which for them meant something with ease of movement and no dry cleaning required. The idea of "dress down" Friday was something of an all week phenomenon in their line of work.

Now the man wore a fine knit black polo and an almost but not quite black jacket and trousers, which was shot with some sort of opalescent thread. He looked very un-Gunn like. Wesley fought the urge to complement the man on his ensemble, thinking it was not something secret agents generally engaged in. A chorus of 'Oh, I say, old chap, you're looking well this evening,' was more than likely to be met with a fist in his face. 

'Looking sharp, Peregrine.' Gunn seemed to have a knack for making the name sound even more ridiculous than it already was. 

'I…er…well, likewise,' he stumbled over the words, and fiddled with a non-existent thread on his cuff, forgetting the deadly blade that lay nestled a few inches from his fingers. He heard a click, and he froze, fully expecting to see a couple of digits drop onto the lobby floor. Imagined himself scooping them up apologetically, while Gunn rolled his eyes at his stupidity.

Thankfully his hand appeared intact, and he realized the sound had come from the weapon concealed in Gunn's jacket.

'You did remember protection, Wes, right?' he asked quietly, smoothing his hand down his pocket with professional ease. 

Wesley drew back his own jacket to display the gun which rested in the holster at his waist. 'I'm packing heat.' 

Gunn's lips twitched ever so slightly before he gave an exasperated sigh and actually did roll his eyes.

'Good to know. As I'm sure everyone in this lobby does now.' 

'Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting I'm… well, you know…'

'It's okay, English. Knew there'd be some fallout from your last mission. London office warned us you might need some looking after.'

Wesley felt his cheeks flush hot with embarrassed anger. 'I'm not a child, you know.'

Gunn's face grew suddenly serious. 'No, I know that, Wes.' The air between them sparked and crackled as something passed between them, an unresolved conflict that he couldn't remember. And then it was gone.

'Look, our guy usually shows at the club around ten.' Gunn looked at his watch. 'That gives us some time to get the lay of the place, and see if we can gather any information. Come on.'

He strode purposefully out of the hotel lobby, and Wesley followed behind. He had truly believed he couldn't feel anymore confused. And here he was, wrong again.

*~*~*~*

"Soul Music" was one of those clubs that you see in old movies and long to visit, though you know they don't exist in real life. The façade of the club was pure Rick's café, and they were led down a short staircase into a seating area lit only by a candle lamp on each table. There was a small stage at the front of the room, which was currently unoccupied, but the spot light trained on an open piano promised entertainment.

They were shown to a table at the side of the room, not too far from the stage. Menus were brought, and they ordered a light meal and American beer, which was served so cold it negated the effects of any alcohol that actually happened to be present. Wesley was just relaxing into his seat and thinking that maybe this secret agent life wasn't too bad after all, when a figure stepped onto the stage that made him choke on his beer.

'Well, folks, have we got a show for you tonight.' 

There was a soft smatter of relaxed applause, and a very definitely not green not horned not particularly demonic Lorne stepped into the spotlight and seated himself at the piano, winking conspiratorially at his audience. 

'Fresh from her triumphant performance in L.A., where she literally brought my house down, it's the siren of song, the mistress of melody, the beloved of ballads, the indefinable Darla!'

Lorne segued gently into the Cole Porter classic 'Love for Sale', and she stepped out from the shadow of the curtains.

She was just as he had remembered her at the Hyperion, pale and thin, soft blonde hair framing her delicate face, wearing a white cotton dress with thin straps across her milk-white shoulders. She swayed gently as she sang, and there was not another sound in the room. Wesley glanced over at Gunn, who was watching him intently.

'Angel's ex,' he whispered, moving his head towards the stage.

Wesley nodded his assent, well aware of the effect this particular little blonde had had on their friend. She was basically responsible for driving Angel over the edge and into the dark place where locking up a roomful of albeit morally doubtful humans with a one devious and one decidedly loopy vampire had seemed like the thing to do. As indeed had firing his friends. He hadn't seen Darla since she had disappeared after Angel had taken the whole concept of firing rather more literally with his vampiric family. 

'_If you want the thrill of love_

_I've been through the mill of love,_

_Old love, new love, any love but true love.'_

She looked directly at them as she sang, her eyes devoid of any emotion, and Wesley felt a shiver run down his spine. She looked… well, the only word he could think of was damaged. The haunting melody ended and she acknowledged the soft applause with a slight wave of her hand, then drifted ethereally offstage. After a few moments she appeared, ghost-like, at their table.

'You're here for Angel.' It was a statement, rather than a question. Gunn pulled out a chair for her and she sat, running her hand over her dress reflexively, her palm lingering briefly on her stomach.

'He knows why you're here.' This time there was emotion, and Wesley recognized it easily. She was afraid. He leaned forward, and reached over to her, covering her pale trembling hand with his own. 

'Please, don't be afraid. We won't harm you.'

She laughed unexpectedly and turned to him. 'It's a bit late for that, isn't it, Mr Pryce? After what happened in L.A.?'

Gunn grabbed her hand firmly and she recoiled from him, her face rigid with terror.

'Listen, Darla, we don't have time for your games. If you know where Angel is, you better start singing.' He squeezed her tiny fingers between his, and she mewed softly, clearly in pain.

'Gunn, is that really necessary?' He hated that he had not the slightest clue what she was talking about, but the woman seemed genuinely terrified.

'Wesley, she works for them. She is the enemy.' Gunn's voice was cold and hard.

'But she…' before he could finish, a shadow fell across their table and he looked up to see Lorne bearing down on them, cocktail in hand.

'Ah, there you are, my little diva of despondency.' He took her other hand, pulling her out of Gunn's grasp, frowning almost parentally. 'You know the boss doesn't like you fraternizing with the clientele. Especially this sort of clientele.' Lorne looked vaguely disgusted as he waved his hand in Wesley's direction. Darla let herself be ushered to a door at the side of the stage, and then she disappeared into the darkness beyond. Lorne turned and strode back to their table, with the air of a man who has unfinished business. Wesley braced himself for another of those increasingly bewildering conversations that were occurring with rather depressing regularity. 

'You've got some nerve showing up here!' Lorne spoke quietly, but there was venom in his voice. Well, that at least was new. Overt hostility, rather than the hypocritical 'We don't blame you for what happened in L.A., _except we really do'_. He thought he might actually learn something from the Host. The usually bright red eyes were a strangely neutral hazel, and it was a little disconcerting to see the man below the demon visage.

'You better pray the boss hasn't heard you're here.' He addressed them both, and Wesley looked at Gunn for an explanation. The other man was sipping his beer with deliberate casualness, remaining silent. Lorne leaned in a little closer.

'My advice to you gentlemen is to drink up, pay up and leave. Now, before the rumours spread. I run a nice establishment here and I have a reputation to maintain. I would hate to have it sullied by the discovery of two bodies in the dumpster out the back, if you catch my drift.'

'You have bodies in your dumpster?' Wesley asked incredulously, not quite believing Lorne would be capable of such an atrocity.

Lorne shook his head in disbelief and looked at Gunn, who tapped the side of his head with his forefinger in a not very surreptitious manner. A gesture which clearly was meant to cast some aspersions on Wesley's mental state. 

'He means us, Wes. It's a threat.'

'Oh, I see. We'd be the bodies, then. That makes things much clearer, thank you.'

'Um, you're welcome?' Lorne looked as if he was having some trouble following the conversation. Well, it was nice to see someone else as confused as he was. Gave him a sense of camaraderie which almost made up for the fact that Lorne had just threatened to kill them. Okay, have them killed, but who was going to argue semantics. Apart from him, obviously.

'Look, you may not believe this, but I'm not one for the holding of grudges. What's done is done, and all that crap. But you shouldn't be here. He hasn't forgotten what was done to him. Sees it as his life's mission to make those responsible pay. And I mean the sort of cheques your body really doesn't want to be cashing.' Lorne sat back in the chair, eyeing them both with a wistful hostility.

'So I think it would be best if you just left now…' he took a sip from his cocktail glass and leaned over towards Wesley, running a finger along the arm of his chair.'…while you still have the option.' 

He stood up and popped his now empty glass onto a tray which had materialized next to him, borne by one of the many discreet waiters who floated effortlessly through the semi darkness.

'Ah, you're a treasure, Tomasi!' Lorne wafted off towards the stage, the coloured spotlight briefly granting him his usual garden hue. Gunn set down his beer and stood up.

'We're going? That's it? We're not even going to speak to this Steelfinger?'

Gunn appeared to be having some trouble controlling his temper. He moved over to Wesley and leaned down so he could speak without being overheard.

'I'm going. To try and find Darla. Girl knows way more than she's saying. You're staying here. In this seat. Not moving. Not talking to anybody. About anything. We clear on that, English?' There was a threat in his tone that wasn't so much underlying as verging on the blatantly obvious.

'Absolutely, yes. Clear as crystal.' He knew he was rambling, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Gunn gave him a final pitying look, and straightened up, heading over to the other side of the club where they had last seen Darla, before she had vanished through the stage curtain.

Wesley eyed the remains of his beer with apathy, and poked disconsolately at his jambalaya, hoping to find a rogue shrimp, or a piece of what Gunn had assured him was chicken, but he could have sworn was frogs' legs. 

He'd had just about enough of this world. It simply wasn't fair to expect him to act all secret agenty and cool when he hadn't a bloody notion what was going on. He would just sit here quietly until Gunn came back and then he would tell him the truth. That he was completely and utterly insane.

That was the plan. He did indeed stay in his seat, without moving. And that would have been fine, if his chair had co-operated. It, however, had plans of its own. There was a sudden rush of cool air, and he felt himself being pulled first backwards, and then down, as if on an accelerated lift. The chair hit the ground with a jarring bump, which would have thrown him out of it, had he not now been bound by the wrists to the arms of the chair. That discovery was certainly a cause for concern, he mused, as indeed was the pitch blackness in which he now found himself.

The sudden blinding light that immediately enveloped him made him wish for the comfortable darkness again. As his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, he was dismayed to note that the table in front of him played host to a number of antique and suspiciously sharp weapons. They were arranged in descending order from the largest to smallest, and they looked as if they had been recently cleaned. Wesley looked down at his manacled wrists which were clamped tightly to the chair arms, his hands and fingers hanging freely off the edge. This did not bode well.

'Ah, Mr Pryce. I've been expecting you.'

He raised his head swiftly and met the gaze of his captor, one Lindsey McDonald, who stood smiling before him, hands folded casually behind his back.

'I don't know what you mean,' he countered swiftly, remembering his cover. 'I'm Peregrine Wyn…'

'Oh, please, Pryce, spare me the spiel. You know who you are, and I'm not likely to forget, am I?' As he spoke, he brought his hands in front of him. 

The left hand was small, almost too delicate for a man, except for the little calluses on the pad of each finger. It was a musician's hand, and he suddenly had an image of Lindsey in Caritas, playing acoustic guitar quite expertly.

The right hand couldn't really be called a hand, in any sense other than it seemed to be attached to the end of the man's wrist. It was suddenly very clear to Wesley how Lindsey had gained the nickname Steelfinger. Where there should have been flesh and bone, there was only metal. A modern day hook; two steel pincers that acted as thumb and forefinger. It was at once extremely disturbing and horrifically fascinating.

'What happened to your hand? Didn't you have that transplant…?'

Lindsey threw back his head and laughed manically, not filling Wesley with much hope for his future.

'You haven't forgotten? What your friend did to me, back in L.A.?' He waved the claw wildly in Wesley's face. 'Chopped my hand off, and left me with this!' 

'Well, you have to remember that you were trying to burn that… um… document.' It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

'_My _document, belonging to _me_, and none of Angel's damn business!'  Lindsey swung round to the table and snatched up the largest of the weapons, a curved scythe with a blade that looked sharp enough to split hairs. Or indeed slice off fingers.

'Yes, well, perhaps he was a bit hasty. Never really one to think things through, our Angel. Not so much of a planner, more one of the hit first, ask questions later brigade.' He was well aware that he was babbling inanely, but he was also extremely aware of the deadly blade that was poised inches above his wrist.

'I, on the other hand, am a master of planning.'

And here it was, the moment when the evil genius revealed his dastardly plot to the hapless hero, who would then somehow manage to escape the certain death scenario and foil the mastermind's evil scheme. Only the hapless hero generally tended to have a firmer grasp on reality than Wesley currently possessed. 

'I want to know where Angel is.' Lindsey smiled nastily, and gently ran the tip of the scythe across the back of Wesley's hand, a thin thread of blood welling in the wake of the blade. 'And I know you're going to tell me where to find him.'

He turned back to the table and slipped his left hand underneath, pressing a hidden button. A few moments later, a door opened and a veiled figure stepped into the room.

'You've already met one of my muses this evening. Darla is my Rhyme, and here's my Reason. So-called because she possesses none. Drusilla, come and say hello to the nice gentleman.'

Drusilla removed the veil and sat down at the table, her dark hair tumbling down her back. Where Darla had been dressed in white, Drusilla was in black, a fitted velvet gown which left her shoulders and throat bare, revealing extensive burn scarring from the neck down. She placed her palms on the table top and nodded to Lindsey, who thankfully laid down the scythe.

'Ready?' he enquired, running his metal pincers through her thick tresses. She did not flinch, seemed to lean into his cold caress.

'I am ready.'

'Now, Pryce. This is very simple. I ask you a question, and you answer. Drusilla here will know if you are lying. Call it woman's intuition; call it the simple honesty of the truly insane.' He paused and picked up a small scalpel from the table. 'We'll start with something easy. Your name?'

'W- Wesley Pryce.' He heard the tremor in his voice and was overwhelmed with self-disgust.

'He speaks the truth.' Her voice was flat, emotionless.

'Good, I knew you'd co-operate.' Lindsey moved closer to him, leaning over him, pressing his artificial hand against his own. Wesley felt the cool steel on his warm skin, and a shudder ran through his body. 'Now. Where is Angel?

Straight to the point. 'Actually that's what I was going to ask you. I'm afraid I've no idea where he is.'

Lindsey looked over at Drusilla, who had begun to tremble slightly. 'Dru?'

She turned to look directly at Wesley. 'Wicked, wicked boy! You hurt Daddy! Took away the baby. And now Daddy doesn't love you any more, and he doesn't love us. And Miss Edith has no one to come to her tea party, and we were going to have such a lovely time, just Miss Edith and me and the baby. Wicked child!'

Wesley felt the sweat trickle down his sides. 'Look, I don't know what she's talking about. I have no idea where Angel is, I swear.'

'Liar! He's been a bad, bad boy and needs to be punished.'

Lindsey had set down the scalpel, and was now holding the little finger of his right hand between the pincers. 

'Oh, dear. Looks like you've been found out. But don't feel bad, I was going to hurt you anyway, no matter how you answered. You familiar with the old testament, Wesley?'

Wesley nodded hopelessly, trying to prepare himself for the pain that was about to come, knowing that it was an exercise in futility.

'Exodus, to be precise. He shall pay as the judges determine… eye for eye, tooth for tooth…' Lindsey smiled nastily as his pincers closed around the finger. 

'And hand for hand.'


	5. The Spy Who Loved Me

**TITLE:**  From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** Softish R, to be safe

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 5 of 8. In which there is some pain. Quite a lot of pain, actually, and not all of it unpleasant.

Title nicked from Ian Fleming. Mangled quote from 'the Importance of Being Earnest' by Oscar Wilde. 

**Chapter 5: The Spy Who Loved Me**

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. And in the thirty four years that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had existed, he had broken at least eight. That he knew of.

Firstly, a hairline fracture of the cheekbone, the result of an Under 11 prep school cricket tournament, when he'd valiantly attempted to thwart the cricket ball's trajectory to the boundary line by stopping it with his face.

Then the forearm and collar bone he'd fractured when he had fallen awkwardly during fencing practice with his father. This had earned him first an exasperated lecture on his clumsiness, and then grudging admiration when he had endured the resetting of the bone in his arm without a whimper. He had almost bitten through his tongue in an effort to hold in the screams, but the brief word of praise that his father had bestowed upon him had made the pain worthwhile.

The two vertebrae had been shattered during the mayor's ascension in Sunnydale, while the explosion in their old offices had contributed to the cracking of three ribs.

As agonizing as all of these injuries had been, they simply paled into insignificance when compared with his current predicament. How ironic, that the breaking of one of the smallest bones in the body could cause the greatest pain. Of course, the fact that his little finger was being slowly broken by a psychotic madman with serious amputation issues, was contributing somewhat to his discomfort. 

Lindsey was taking forever.

He held the finger delicately between the steel pincers, and was pulling up, ever so gently, ever so excruciatingly slowly, till Wesley could feel the bones shifting, separating, moving inexorably towards breaking point. He was not screaming, however; preferring instead to divert his energies into discovering new and inventive ways to combine the various obscenities he was muttering through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, salty sweet as tears running into his mouth. At the table in from of him, Drusilla was going for the Oscar in decidedly deranged.

'Wicked child!' she squealed, clasping her hands over her ears. 'Nasty, filthy, dirty mouth! He needs to be punished; to be made clean!' 

She stood up suddenly, and clapped her hands together. 'Oh please, let me do it, let me wash his mouth out!' And she was standing beside Lindsey now, her dark eyes sparkling with demented glee. 'Shall I fetch the soap now, Stepdaddy?'

Lindsey paused in mid torture, allowing him a brief moment of respite. 'Gag him with soap? Don't see why not, Dru. Be my guest.'

Wesley saw Drusilla lift something from the table, which he assumed was the aforementioned soap. That was it. He could cope with the whole mistaken for a spy scenario, the surreal world which was his reality now. He could even cope with having his extremities mutilated, and dear god how he hoped that Lindsey would stop at fingers. But he was not going to sit there and have his mouth washed out with soap like he was six years old again and his mother had caught him swearing under his breath in Latin. 

'Right, that's it!' he hissed, fighting against the desperate desire to scream until he blacked out. 'You put that bloody bar anywhere near my mouth and so help me I'll kill you, you lunatic bitch!'

Lindsey laughed in that eerily unhinged way that takes most megalomaniacs years to perfect; then caressed the damaged finger with the edge of his claw. Wesley's whole arm tensed as cold steel reconnected with heated flesh, and he felt something move in the hollow of his elbow, a switch shifting against the sweat-slick surface of his skin.

There was a flash of gun metal grey, and the hidden blade swung free, slicing through the arm restraint like titanium through steel. 

'Hah!' Wesley couldn't help shouting, though he was aware it was not very professional of him. He quickly manoeuvred round and cut through the other manacle, freeing not only his arm, but also allowing him to stand up and face the other man, ready for hand to hand combat, so to speak.

Except that Lindsey was not offering any sort of protest at his captive's sudden liberation. He was instead doubled over, holding his arm protectively to his chest. It was only when Wesley took a step forward and almost tripped over it, that he noticed the steel claw on the ground. 

'You cut off my hand!' Lindsey sobbed. 'Again!' 

'Well, technically, it wasn't me last time…' he began, and then closed his mouth again. He also managed not to make the Wilde-ian observation that to lose a hand once may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose it twice seemed like carelessness. He really didn't think Lindsey was in the mood to appreciate it.

Drusilla wrung her hands and leaned against the table for support. And for better access to the weaponry. She seized the now familiar scythe and swept it towards his head with unerring accuracy. Wesley attempted to block the blow with his own wrist blade, but unfortunately it chose that moment to retract, so instead he ducked down, and caught her ankle, yanking her to the ground. Her head connected with the edge of the table and she went down hard, the blade falling uselessly to the side. Wesley glanced at the now cataleptic Drusilla and a somewhat distracted Lindsey and made a run for the door. 

To be met by a coolly indignant Lorne.

'I did warn you, Wesley.' He folded his arms across his chest and stood in the passageway, blocking any escape. 'Told you to not to interfere. But no, you always have to go picking at things best left alone.'

Wesley pulled the Walther PPK from his waistband and looked at him apologetically. 'Lorne, please, I don't want to hurt you.' 

'That didn't stop you last time.' As cool as before, but this time his eyes flashed red hot with anger. 

In the room behind him, Wesley could hear Lindsey shrieking curses and issuing orders to unknown minions to stop the Englishman at all costs. He didn't want to shoot Lorne, but if it came down to it, he was willing to hurt him. He checked the safety catch and then quickly raised the butt of the gun to bring it down on the demon's temple. 

_And he is struggling desperately as the light reflects off a statuette bright with blood._

Lorne caught his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip and shook his head. 'No, we're not doing this again.' He pulled him close, till they were almost nose to nose, then swung him round and kicked his foot against a barred door. It opened onto a dark alley at the back of the club. 

'Get out of my sight. If he catches you here again, he will kill you. And I won't stop him next time.'

With that, Lorne shoved him out into the stultifying warmth of the Miami night. Wesley stumbled and hit the ground, automatically putting out his hand to break his fall. The shriek of agonized protest from his little finger was nauseatingly intense, and he decided that passing out would be pleasant about now. He was vaguely aware of other shouts around him and suddenly he was being hauled up and dragged along the alley, his feet barely making contact with the ground. 

'Come on, English, get your pansy ass moving!'

Clearly fate had other plans for him. His arm was slung around what he sincerely hoped was Gunn's neck and he clung on for dear life.

'Shit, Wes, what the hell did you do to him?' Gunn hissed as he pulled him into the street at the end of the alley. 'I leave you alone for five minutes, and you've got Steelfinger's whole crew gunning for you.' 

As if to attest to his statement, a stray bullet whizzed past them. They moved into the crowd, confident that the minions wouldn't be able to pick them off in the relative safety of the busy street.

'I – uh – cut his hand off again. Accidentally,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

Gunn glared at him for a long moment and then his face creased into a broad grin. 'Well, yeah. Accidental amputation, that would do it.' He held out his hand and Wesley unthinkingly slapped his own hand down, then howled in pain. 

'Think he might have broken my finger,' he explained weakly, trying to salvage some dignity. He was tired and cross and his finger hurt like buggery, and all he really wanted was a splint and some really strong painkillers. And maybe a bottle of Balvenie. And to curl up in a bed somewhere and pretend this wasn't happening. That would be good. 

Gunn obviously sensed his embarrassment, as he simply tightened his grip on Wesley's shoulders and guided him towards the hotel.

*~*~*~*

Three hours and one detour to the local ER later, they returned to the hotel, Wesley's finger splinted and bandaged. The doctor had pronounced it broken, and there had been questions raised as to how exactly the injury had occurred. Gunn had sidestepped them very neatly, going into unnecessary detail on his friend's accident prone nature. Wesley had illustrated this by tripping over his shoelaces three times. Only two of which had been intentional.

Gunn had returned him to his hotel room, handing him the pack of painkillers they had issued in the hospital, and instructing him to get some sleep, as they had another lead to follow in the morning. 

Wesley closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He was torn between sheer elation at still possessing all his fingers, and exhausted despair at his current situation. He dropped the pills onto a lamp table next to a dark leather club chair, and opted instead for the medicinal benefits of a double measure of Balvenie. He had done extensive research on the contents of the bar before he had left earlier this evening, and was pleased to discover a large variety of decent single malts had been provided for his drinking pleasure. He poured three and a broken finger of Scotch into the glass and took a long swallow, hissing in pleasure as the liquid burned all the way to his stomach. 

He set the glass down and began the rather tricky process of one handed removal of his clothing. The jacket wasn't too difficult, but the fine buttons on the shirt were proving a bit of a challenge. He swore softly in frustration and tried to pull the garment over his head, moving towards the bedroom. He succeeded in entangling his left arm in the neck of his shirt and tripping over a discarded shoe.

'Perhaps you could use a bit of a hand?'

Wesley froze. The voice had apparently come from his bed. He struggled valiantly with the errant shirt, finally managing to pull it over his head and fling it onto the floor next to his bed. Then stared at its occupant.

Lilah Morgan, attorney at law, employee of Wolfram and Hart, or as he preferred to call it, Evil Incarnate. In his hotel room. In his bed. And not in the least sleepy.

She lay beneath the virgin white bed linen, the fine cotton accentuating rather than disguising her body. The sheet undulated softly, clinging in all the right places, hinting at the delicate curves and hollows promised below. It was more than clear that she was naked below the sheet, save for a thin black velvet ribbon tied in a prim bow around her throat. It stood out starkly against the creamy skin, almost pearlescent in the moonlight that spilled through the uncurtained window.

'Hello, _Alexei,_' she giggled, her voice full of feigned innocence. She pulled the sheet up around her shoulders demurely, and blinked once, very slowly, allowing a good view of very long full lashes.

He eyed her with suspicion, trying to ignore the involuntary reactions his body was having to this undeniably seductive sight. He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly acutely aware of his own naked torso, and fought the ridiculous urge to cover his nipples with his fingers. He tried to look stern.

'I think you must have me confused with someone else.' 

She flashed him a heartmelting smile, and did the slow blink again; obviously enjoying the effect she was having on his helpless body.

'Oh, I don't think that's the case, Mr Pryce. You and I know each other intimately.'

He stared at her in uncomprehending horror. What she was suggesting was unconscionable. He had never, would never have, although there was no denying the allure of the woman, you would have to be made of stone not to consider the possibilities….

He gave himself a mental shake. No, Wesley, no. There will be no consorting, fraternizing or otherwise associating with the enemy in any shape, form or… even if it was such a lovely form. He had never before noticed how incredibly tempting the evil lawyer bitch from hell now seemed to be. Of course, he had never before come upon her naked under his bedclothes in a wonderfully atmospheric hotel room, so that might have something to do with it. 

'Perhaps I could refresh your memory…?' She lifted the sheet a little, and patted the bed beside her, smiling like a lioness that has spotted the gazelle with the trick knee and in-growing hooves. And damn him if he didn't just slide into the bed next to her, his body moving independently of his brain. She shifted onto her side, and her hands dropped to his belt, carefully filed nails intentionally grazing the skin of his stomach, setting his teeth on edge and sending his adrenaline levels sky high. 

'Here, let me help you with that,' she purred, deftly unbuckling the mulberry belt and pulling it through the loops of his trousers. There was a soft hiss of leather through air, and the belt was free, though not discarded, he noted with some trepidation. She snapped it firmly, then slid it under his head, down to his neck. Wesley whimpered, once, very softly, never taking his eyes off her.

'You've been a very bad boy.' She leaned down to whisper in his ear, and he bit his tongue into silence. 'You told me you didn't care, didn't want to know; and all the time you were looking for him and lying to me!' Her voice rose on the final phrase, and she pulled him onto his side, one hand twisting the belt firmly around his neck, the other at his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down past his knees, and off. 

He shivered as her hand returned to the waistband of his shorts, terror and arousal vying for supremacy. Some small, dark and very deeply buried part of him recognized the terror as the reason for the arousal, but he swallowed that realization down; now was not the time for that sort of introspection. 

She released her strangle hold on the belt, and his breath came out in a rushed gasp that strangely happened to be her name.

'Oh, good boy. I'm glad to see you remember my name.' She cocked her head to one side, and he did not like the gleam that he could actually see forming in her eye. 'You do remember my name, don't you, _Alexei_?' 

He nodded reflexively, and she grabbed his injured hand, forcing him to roll onto his stomach. 

'Ow! Lilah!'  he yelped, impotent against her grip around his fingers.

'Don't struggle,' she said patiently, loosing her hold on the splinted fingers just a little. 'I won't hurt you if you don't struggle. Well, not very much,' she giggled, slapping her hand down onto his backside hard enough to make him jump. 'Now, you haven't answered my question fully. What's my name?'

He wasn't sure what answer she required. Perhaps she had some sort of twisted mistress slave relationship with the man she believed him to be. 'Um… mistress?' he ventured, earning himself another slap.

'Very funny, Pryce,' she laughed, not sounding too annoyed. 'Perhaps we could come back to that one later. Guess again.'

'Er… Lilah Morgan?' He was at a loss. The three smacks he received confirmed his failure.

'No, no, no! I knew you weren't listening. I knew it!  It's Lilah Romanov, Agent Triple X.' She leaned long on the second 'a' of Romanov, emphasizing each of the other syllables with a slap. 'And I know exactly who you are, Mr Wesley Pryce, Agent 007. Alexei, indeed! You weren't fooling anyone back in L.A., you know.'

She wasn't hitting him any more, and to be honest he wasn't sure if he was relieved or a tiny bit disappointed. He rolled cautiously onto his side again, and looked up into her suddenly suspiciously bright eyes. She swiped at his face blindly, angry at being caught off guard.

Wesley grabbed her wrist with his good hand and pulled her down beside him, her mouth meeting his, teeth clashing together in a sudden vicious kiss. 

'No! You're not getting your way tonight!' There was a brief skirmish for control, and to Wesley's surprise, he won. Felt her relax into the kiss. He nipped her lip firmly with his teeth, then reached up and pulled out the prim little black bow, tossing it to one side.  She actually shuddered with pleasure. 

'Oh, you're such a bad, bad, boy!' she whispered mockingly, and he gave her hair a good sharp tug, pretending he didn't savour the hiss of pain that accompanied the action.

'Shut up, Lilah,' he said, quite equitably.

'Make me.'

So Wesley did.

*~*~*~*

Wesley woke up in pain. Various degrees and types of pain, it had to be said, but pain nevertheless. His little finger, of course, was the most insistent and least pleasant. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a little salsa rhythm of agony. And then there was his back. She had carved her passion into his flesh with nails and hands and… he eyed the belt somewhat wistfully. Lilah had been really quite expert at wandering that fine line between extreme pleasure and unbearable pain. Had crossed it a couple of times, of course, but that was only to be expected. He turned over and was surprised to find the bed empty. Perhaps she was in the bathroom. 

He pulled the sheet up over his chest, and pondered the events of the night. All in all it had been fairly stressful evening, what with the torture at the hands of a psychopath and then the new and disturbing discovery that he not only got off on pain, but had clearly been in some kind of sadomasochistic relationship with the legal representative of hell on earth, and had enjoyed every minute of it.

He put his good hand behind his head, and was musing on this mind-altering revelation, when he felt a tickle near the top of his foot. He glanced down to the end of the bed, expecting to see Lilah crouched there, wrapping a silk tie around his ankle. There was no one there. 

Now the tickle had moved further up his leg, halfway up his calf muscle. A light twitching sensation, as if someone were brushing a feather over his leg. Moving ever so slowly upwards. Wesley lifted the sheet very carefully and peered underneath.

Making its way up his lower thigh was a small, but extremely deadly black widow spider.


	6. Casino Royale

**TITLE:** From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:** Eloise

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 6 of 8. Title nicked from Ian Fleming.

**Chapter 6: Casino Royale**

He was an idiot.

You would think that over the years he would have learned to recognise and therefore mediate his behaviour accordingly, but evidently not. It wasn't surprising really. If his father's regular attempts to beat the idiotic tendencies out of him had been unsuccessful, it was unlikely that he would succeed where dedicated paternal determination had failed.

She was the enemy; he had known that, and she had made no attempts to deny that fact. And yet he had snuggled up to sleep next to her, a hart to her wolf. Or more precisely, a fly to her black widow spider.

He did not suffer from arachnophobia, thank God. He would never have survived his childhood if he had been in the least afraid of spiders. The Wyndam-Pryce family home was over a hundred and fifty years old, and various examples of the arachnid species inhabited some of the smaller darker damper areas of the house. He had spent too many hours locked in the cupboard under the stairs with one of these harmless creatures to feel any great fear.

On the contrary, he'd grown quite fond of the company. But those had been spiders of the nursery rhyme variety, the sort that would perhaps have put Miss Muffet off her curds and whey. The creature that was currently making its way along his inner thigh would have caused Miss Muffet to simultaneously wet her bloomers and pass out.

It moved slowly, with a delicacy of touch that made him want to whimper, and not in a good way. Each leg moving independently, the minute hairs on each limb tickling like tiny teddy bear paws as it continued its lazy ascent up his rigid body. It paused at his groin area, and Wesley wondered if the creature was actually channelling Lilah. She'd mated with him, and now he was about to be consumed. With pain. As the tiny paws resumed their death march, he released a soft breath very slowly, feeling the incessant tickle on his stomach. If he could just stay still now…

The desire to sneeze came from nowhere and very quickly became a physical necessity. He fought the urge valiantly, but it was a battle he could not win. The spider was now on his chest and seemed to sense something was amiss. It raised one leg and allowed it to hover in mid air in a questioning manner.

Wesley took a deep breath, frantically trying to remember his Academy lectures on kinematics and the law that states that impulse equals change of momentum. He was sure it was one of Newton's Laws of Motion, which had been detailed in Principia. For some reason, they had been required to read this in the original Latin, and he wondered vaguely if it'd lost something in translation, as he couldn't quite remember if this was the first, second or third law… and now he was really quite angry for as far as he could remember there had been criminally little discussion on the really quite valid problem of how much force would be needed to propel a black widow spider off of your chest and what exact magnitude of sneeze would be required to accomplish this…

He conducted the experiment regardless. The sneeze was satisfyingly loud and extremely violent, and the spider shot a few inches in the air. With a degree of speed which he didn't actually believe he possessed, Wesley rolled to the right and the spider landed next to him on the mattress. He scooted off the bed and seized a shoe, then whacked at the now swiftly scuttling arachnid. The application of shoe to expensively pocket sprung mattress had the unfortunate effect of catapulting the creature off the bed, and the next three thumps of the shoe were accompanied by considerably girlish screams.

Wesley sat back on his heels, waiting for the telltale shooting pains in his left arm. His heart, however, was still beating. Much faster than his body preferred, admittedly, but he was still alive. Which was more than could be said for the spider. He dropped the shoe and eyed the squashed remains with some sorrow. Not its fault, really. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he knew how that felt.

He was about to clean up the mess when he noticed a matchbook on the floor by the bed. He lifted it gingerly and then reached up to switch on the bedside light. The cover was black matte, decorated with the slightly oriental motif of a rising sun, detailed in bronze embossed relief. He opened it and read the hastily scrawled message inside.

_13th at __8pm_

_Mr Big _

_XXX_

Hers. She had dropped it accidentally and now at last he had a clue, something that would put him ahead of the game. He was finally going to regain some control of his life. He turned the book over and read the address on the back. Then sighed softly to himself and lowered his head into his hands.

* * *

He ran his hand appreciatively over the impeccable dinner jacket and silently thanked Gunn for the up to date info on his current location. Last time he'd been here he'd been a little overdressed for this club. Actually, when he thought about it, he'd been a little overdressed for life in this town.

He felt the familiar warmth of embarrassed humiliation at his behaviour on that particular evening; the night he'd first met Angel. He'd come to the club, full of pompous determination, demanding that Buffy report immediately to him. And he hadn't missed the little smile which had touched the vampire's lips when Buffy had slid her hand into his jacket pocket and removed the amulet. He really must have been the most insufferable prig, although he was fairly sure Angel wouldn't have used those exact words. But he had travelled a long road since his Sunnydale days, he was sure of it, and he hardly trembled at all as he pushed the gilded doors that led into the Casino Bronze.

It was utterly unrecognizable. Gone was the post modern industrial interior with its utilitarian stage set and bar area. In its place was opulence of an almost decadent degree. Almost every surface glittered with burnished bronze; the wall bore decorative motifs of the trademark rising sun, as well as garishly coloured paintings of various historical and mythic scenes. He recognized Helen of Troy, Joan of Arc; even the Medusa was represented in these murals.

By far the most striking of these was the fresco that was painted on the ceiling of the former nightclub.

It seems at once incredibly familiar yet somehow alien. And then he realised why. In the centre, where there should have been the depiction of the creation of Adam, there was instead the reclining figure of Eve, her fingers reaching out to grasp not the hand of God, but a deep blood red apple. The other half of the apple was pierced by the sharp fangs of a golden-eyed serpent. The frieze was truly breathtaking in its audacity.

He stood for long moments, gazing at the mural, lost in genuine admiration for the conception and accomplishment of such a project. Then let his gaze drift down towards the occupants of the casino.

The first thing he noticed was the women. At every roulette wheel, black jack, dice and poker table the main participants were the women. There were men, of course, well dressed and immaculately groomed; hovering on the arms of their companions, but the actual gambling seemed to be predominantly the preserve of the females. A few lone males sat at the slot machines, feeding quarters mindlessly into them, but as far as Wesley could see that was the extent of their participation.

It occurred to him then just how much he stood out here. As he moved into the main games concourse, the crowd parted, creating a pathway to a table in the centre of the area. He shrugged internally and followed the route, then had to bite back a gasp of surprise as he recognized the player at the head of the table. Then remembered the handwritten scrawl in the matchbook – who else would be Mr Big in Sunnydale but the mayor?

Richard Wilkins was looking decidedly well for having been blown to pieces nearly three years previously. He was in full evening dress, a snakeskin belt and watch strap the only allusions to his demonic alter-ego. He smiled broadly and raised his hand to greet Wesley, a kindly uncle greeting a wayward nephew.

'There you are. Care to join me at the table?'

Wesley had given up on feeling surprised at anything that happened now. It was simpler just to accept the impossible and get on with it, rather than drive himself mad trying to rationalize the situation. He made his way to the table.

The dealer looked over at Wilkins, who nodded his head just a fraction, and a new deck of cards was produced. He shuffled them expertly and began to deal. There were three players already at the table, and they lifted their cards and began to sort them, so Wesley followed their lead. Rather than the traditional four suits he had been expecting, the cards all depicted people in various occupations, bearing their names. Wesley looked down at his hand, held awkwardly in splinted fingers, and discovered Mrs Bun the Baker, Miss Grits the Grocer's daughter and Master Bones the Butcher's boy.

Happy Families. They were gambling on Happy Families. He watched as the mayor placed a handful of chips in the centre of the table, and then the other players contributed their stake. He pulled out his wallet and offered a hundred dollar bill to the dealer, who exchanged it for a little pile of black and bronze chips. Then tried desperately to remember the rules of a game he'd last played in prep school.

'Please can I have Mr Mug the Milkman?' Wesley realized the woman opposite was addressing him. He searched through his hand, and passed her the requested card.

'Thank you,' she answered and laid out the first family of the game. There was a smattering of applause from the onlookers, who then turned to look at Wesley. He assumed it must be his turn. He flicked through his cards, then turned to the mayor.

'Please can I have Master Bung the Brewer,' he asked. The mayor's smile wavered slightly, and his hand curled into a loose fist. Then he relaxed.

'But of course. My pleasure, Mr… um?'

'Wyndham, Peregrine Wyndham.' He felt he ought to try and use the cover at least once.

'Ah, yes. Mr. _Wyndham_.' Wilkins emphasized the name to make it clear he knew it was a pseudonym, then passed him the card. Wesley added it to his hand and was getting ready to lay out the family when he became aware that the crowd had gone very quiet. The mayor was eyeing him with disdainful satisfaction.

'You forgot to say thank you. That means you forfeit the card. If there's one thing I can't abide, it's a lack of good manners.'

Wesley returned the card reluctantly, and turned his full attention to his hand. There was a degree of skill to the game, he discovered. By listening carefully to the other's requests he was able to predict which player had a particular family, and tailor his own requests accordingly. As the game proceeded, the other players dropped out, and finally only he and Wilkins were left, five families laid out in front of each of them. The tension at the table was palpable, the onlookers stood breathless in the shadow of the lowered lights, watching silently. Wilkins blinked once, so slowly that it seemed almost inhuman, then flicked his tongue out to touch his lips.

'Please may I have Mr Pryce the Pugilist?'

Wesley looked up sharply and saw the corners of the mayor's mouth quirk up with smug satisfaction.

'I'm sorry, I meant Punch…the Pugilist.'

Wesley passed him the card and Wilkins accepted it greedily, hastily shoving it into his hand, ready to lay out a family.

'You forgot the thank you.'

Wesley was fairly sure if there had been someone careless with pins at that particular moment he would have heard them drop. The seconds that followed seemed to last forever, time slowing and dilating wildly. Then Wilkins smiled, a falsely bright smile that didn't quite hide his displeasure.

'Ah, so I did. How kind of you to remind me.' He plucked the card from his hand and returned it, his face a mask of polite sportsmanship.

Having now gained the upper hand, so to speak, Wesley made a formal request for the Master Dip the Dyer's son, remembering to thank the mayor for his donation, before laying out his final family. There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and a very subdued round of applause which died away almost before it had begun

'My congratulations to you, Mr Wyndham,' Wilkins said softly, hissing on the sibilants. 'You are indeed a worthy opponent. I don't believe I've ever lost a game of Happy Families before.'

Wesley gathered the pile of chips from the centre of the table and pushed them to the dealer, who exchanged them for several thousand dollar chips.

'Oh, Beginner's luck, I can assure you. I haven't had much experience with happy families, really.' He wondered if the mayor could detect the irony in his words.

'And how do you plan to use your winnings? Perhaps I could tempt you to a game of Risk? World domination's a bit of a hobby of mine.'

Wesley smiled his dissent. 'No, I think I've reached the limit of my luck tonight. I think my guardian angel is telling me to quit while I'm ahead.' He threw in the angel mention quite deliberately, and was disappointed to elicit no reaction whatsoever from the mayor.

'A wise decision, perhaps. It never does to tempt fate, does it?' A sudden broad smile spread across his face, magnanimous in defeat. 'And there is plenty of alternative amusement available.' He leaned over to a somewhat underdressed waiter and conferred with him quietly.

'Ah, it appears that this evening's entertainment is just about to begin.' He gestured towards a doorway which led into another room. 'I'm sure you'll find our floorshow very interesting.'

Wesley took a glass of champagne from the waiter's proffered tray and obediently made his way into the small auditorium.

He realized quite quickly that apart from the scantily clad waiters, he was the only male in the room. That was remedied as the first strains of music were heard and the dancers arrived on stage. He was using the term dancers in the loosest sense of the word. The men in question were dressed in full fire-fighter gear, which they removed quite haphazardly to the pounding of the eighties classic 'Holding out for a Hero'. The thought occurred to him that if you were actually trapped on the eighth floor of a burning building, you would be severely disappointed if these were the heroes you were holding out for.

From the catcalls and general squealing that was going on in the room, it was clear that none of the females present held this pragmatic view. As the dancers stripped down to their protective underwear the excitement in the auditorium reached fever pitch, with small skirmishes breaking out over the ownership of the various discarded items of clothing.

Wesley noticed in particular two women fighting over a T-shirt that was still actually being worn by one of the dancers, a tall rather muscular dark haired fellow who was looking directly at him with haunted eyes and Good God, it couldn't be. He blinked and adjusted his glasses. Xander Harris.

The look of dumb pleading in the man's eyes was pitiful in the extreme. It was obvious that he was not on stage by choice. Certainly not his own. Wesley wasn't sure if Xander had recognized him, or if the look of helpless entreaty was simply directed at the only male in the room not employed by the casino. He wondered if the term employed might be rather euphemistic in Xander's case. The word enslaved seemed more appropriate. And if Harris was being held here against his will, it was entirely possible that others might also be captive. The music reached a crescendo, and the frenetic throng were now attacking the stage with real desperation. Wesley saw Xander's eyes flick to a door to the left of the stage marked private. Using the frenzied crowd as cover, Wesley made his way down to the stage area, then sidled over to the door, leaning casually on the handle. It gave way easily.

The door must have been soundproofed, as the silence on the other side was decidedly eerie, considering the amount of noise that was being generated in the room he had just come from. It was a long dimly lit corridor, with a number of what appeared to be dressing room doors leading off from the passageway. He pressed down on a handle and was not surprised to find it locked. In fact the whole backstage area had the air of a prison about it. Too late he realized that the main reason for this impression was the surveillance cameras positioned along the length of the passage.

He barely had time to register his self-disgust as a foot hit him in the small of the back, expelling the air out of his lungs and knocking him to the ground. He remembered his broken finger this time, and allowed his face to break his fall.

'Ow!'

The foot connected with his kidneys as if its owner held some sort of grievance against that particular organ. He managed a weak groan of agony and lifted his throbbing face off the floor in an attempt to identify his assailant. He saw heavy heeled boots, and a flash of skin-tight black leather wrapped around a well-developed calf muscle, before his face was mashed against the floor again, a hand tight around the back of his neck.

'Stay down!'

He knew that voice. Had been given a foretaste of hell accompanied by that voice.

'Faith.'

His head rang with pain as she rapped her fist on the back of his skull.

'You don't get to speak, asshole,' she informed him without any great anger. 'You just get to scream.'

But he wasn't tied this time and he had the advantage of righteous indignation on his side. He reached up with his good hand and grasped a fistful of long hair, pulling it as hard as he could. She gave a satisfying shriek and released her grip on his neck enough for him to flip over onto this back. She still seemed to possess her slayer reflexes, if not the actual strength, as she was on top of him instantly, her leather clad thighs tight around his rib cage.

And she was squeezing. Hard enough to make breathing a problem. He looked up into kohl lined eyes that burned with malevolent joy.

'Just want to hear you scream, that's all.' She grinned wickedly and dug her knees into the sides of his chest.

He was beginning to feel faint, the pressure on his lungs was almost unbearable, and then suddenly it stopped and he was being pulled up roughly, and shoved hard against the wall.

'The boss wants him alive.'

A new voice, one he recognized from his tenure as failed watcher.

'I wasn't going to kill him, B.' Faith sounded huffy, but not really angry. 'I was just having some fun.'

'I've seen your idea of fun, Faith.' Buffy kept his arm twisted behind his back, with just enough force to make sure he couldn't move. 'Last time you cracked three of Harris' ribs.'

'That was just foreplay.' The little giggle in her voice made him shiver in sympathy for Xander.

'Whatever.' Buffy pulled him away from the wall. 'You. The boss wants to see you. Now.'

Wesley took a quick breath and spoke with a confidence he did not feel. 'I'm not afraid of Wilkins.'

Faith began to laugh. 'You thought Dick was the boss? Oh, please. Sure, he manages the casino, but the boss?'

'Faith!' Buffy spoke sharply, and pushed him in front of her.

He had the choice of co-operating or having his arm broken. He chose co-operation.

The slayers frogmarched him along the corridor until they reached a door. Buffy knocked once and then opened it, shoving him into the room while keeping a firm grip on his wrist.

He saw a heavy oak desk, beyond which lay a black leather swivel chair, currently facing the opposite wall.

'On his knees, please.'

Immediately two feet hit him behind the knees and he collapsed onto the floor. There was movement behind the desk and he looked over, only to receive a smack on the back of his head from Faith. He kept his eyes on the floor.

After a few moments a pair of leather boots came into view.

'Mm, pretty boy.'

Wesley trembled as a finger traced over his chin, then tilted his face up, and he looked into the face of a witch.

'Allow me to introduce myself, Mr Pryce. The name's Willow. Pussy Willow.'


	7. A View to a Thrill

**TITLE:** From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:** Eloise

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 7 of 8. Title mangled by me and nicked from Ian Fleming. I've been snowed under with work stuff lately, and this chapter proved quite tricky. Reminding me why I should never write Buffy characters.

**Chapter 7: A View to a Thrill**

'Want me to make him talk, Boss?'

This was Faith. She had Wesley's arms crossed behind his back and twisted as high as they would go without actually breaking. Though Wesley feared that was more by carelessness than actual design. He believed that Faith would have no qualms about breaking him piece by piece.

'Now, now, Faith, be gentle. We wouldn't want to spoil that pretty face.' Willow stood in front of him, arms folded across a leather-encased cleavage that defied gravity.

'Doesn't have to be the face. I could start anywhere.' She slid her fingers along his arm and squeezed his injured finger firmly. He saw stars, great white hot supernovas that radiated pain and drew a high-pitched strangled sound from lips he had sworn would not open.

'Huh. He screams like a girl.' Buffy was leaning against the desk, watching the proceedings with ill-concealed boredom.'

'Faith, let him be. Don't want my toys broken.' Willow leaned forward and pulled Faith to her, her fingernails snagging in the dark curls. 'If you're a good girl, maybe I'll let you play with Xander later.'

Faith let go of his arms and he dropped his palms onto the floor, breathing heavily, as the Willow drew Faith's head back carefully, and nipped her neck with her teeth. Faith arched against her, a little growl of pleasure rumbling in her throat. It occurred to Wesley that under other circumstances his current vantage point was the stuff of most male fantasies. The being on his knees in pain part of the situation, however, was making the fantasy a little more masochistic than he liked.

Willow paused and looked down at him, the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. 'Like to watch, don't you, Wesley?'

Faith groaned in frustration. 'Come on, Will, let me play with him. Xander's no fun anymore. He keeps breaking.' She threw a mutinous glare at Buffy. 'And I can't even play with Spike now.'

Buffy leaned back and swung her legs casually. 'Oops. My bad.'

Willow released Faith and shoved her away gently, turning to face Buffy. 'Yes, I seem to remember someone getting careless.'

'Oh, Boss, not fair. You know he had outside help.' Buffy didn't seem particularly worried.

Faith slid a booted toe under his chin and jerked his head up quickly. 'And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I've no bloody clue what you're talking about.' Wesley decided that outraged disavowal was his best defence.

Willow laughed; a soft whispered chuckle that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

'Oh, isn't he sweet when he's pretending to be innocent.' Again she leaned down and ran a fingernail down his cheek, the nail grazing his stubble, but not enough to break the skin. 'Think again, pretty boy. Not in the mood for lies. Don't want to get angry with you. Yet.' Her fingers trailed over to this ear, then she grasped the hair above it between her thumb and forefinger and twisted sharply.

He had forgotten how incredibly painful that could be. His father's favourite method of gaining his attention when he had caught him daydreaming, it made him jump now and produce a tiny squeak of pain.

'There now, got your attention. Now then, Mr Pryce. Where exactly is Angel?'

* * *

Wesley sighed and tried to rub some feeling into his numbed wrists. Things had deteriorated quite considerably when he had been unable to answer Willow's questions. They had fallen into a bit of a pattern; Willow would ask him a question, he would have no idea as to the answer, and Faith and Buffy would take it in turns to hit him. Hard. While the other one held him. It hurt. A lot.

From what he could gather, in between the general torture and more specific hitting, Willow was the head of the splinter group PERVE. They were the group that initially had captured Angel, but he had been removed from their safekeeping a few weeks ago. By a SPURT operative that they insisted on believing was him. No amount of refutation and cajoling would persuade them otherwise.

Wesley's thoughts turned to Lilah, and he couldn't help feeling a little wry admiration for the brilliance of her plan. She had set him up perfectly and he had walked right into the trap. Left the matchbook there on purpose, so that if he did survive the black widow, he would end up following the 'lead' to Sunnydale. And straight into Pussy Willow's thus far fairly painful clutches. And far away from wherever it was SPURT had Angel hidden.

He leaned back against the wall of his cell, and hissed involuntarily as his kidneys protested at the stretch in his midriff. Buffy had been fairly clinical in her blows, hitting him hard and fast, deriving no discernible pleasure from her activities. She had a job to do, and she did it to the best of her abilities. He could respect that.

Faith, on the other hand, had clearly revelled in her torture. She had been determined to make him scream, taken it as a personal challenge, reminding him rather forcibly of the night they had spent together three years ago. Every blow had been accompanied by sneering jibes and taunts, carefully calculated to break him. He had refused to be broken. Mentally, of course. Physically, he felt as if an amateur juggler had been practising with his internal organs, and had dropped them repeatedly.

He closed his eyes and had almost slipped into a blissfully painless doze when he heard it. A quiet sound from the other side of the wall. He pressed his head against the plaster surface. A definite groan this time.

'Hello?'

'Spike? Is that you?' The muffled voice sounded desperately hopeful.

'No, I'm terribly sorry. I'm Peregrine Wyndham.'

'Pryce! I knew you'd come.'

Wesley sighed and wondered why Giles had bothered with the pseudonym, as apparently everyone he met knew exactly who he was. Even disembodied voices in adjoining dungeons, it seemed.

'And you would be…?' He was aware of how incredibly pompous he sounded, but the proper etiquette of introducing oneself to a fellow prisoner in the underground lair of a clearly criminal but disturbingly erotic evil genius currently eluded him.

'Uh… it's Xander. Xander Harris? We worked together a while back, before the… thing in L.A.' Even through the partition wall Wesley could hear the uncertainty in the other's voice.

'Oh, yes. The firefighter.'

There was a soft sound from Xander, which might have been a whimper.

'They make me do it. If I don't go on stage, Faith gets to play with me.'

Wesley felt a wave of sympathy for the poor fellow. He was all too aware of the sorts of games Faith liked to indulge in. Burned in his memory in more than one sense of the word.

'But you're here now.' He spoke as if Wesley was the second coming. 'No matter how bad things got, we always knew you'd come. Angel said you'd come.'

'You were with Angel?' Wesley tried unsuccessfully to sound casually disinterested.

'We were a trio. Me, Spike and Angel. Had the best strip routine outside of Vegas.' Xander sounded a little wistful. 'Until Angel got kidnapped and Spike managed to escape. At least he showed some initiative. I just cowered in my cell.' Wesley could hear the self disgust in his voice.

'Come now, Xander. You can't beat yourself up over it.'

'No, I let Faith do that.'

'Bout time you put a stop to that, then, Xan?' The new voice, carrying from the corridor outside surprised them both.

'Spike? That you?'

Wesley had not actually met the other vampire. But had read the details of William the Bloody's career with as much interest as that of Angelus. His curiosity had been piqued when he had sneaked into his father's library to read through his watcher diaries. The Vienna orphanage massacre had immediately captured his attention. Hardly daring to believe that his father was capable of failure. He had been so absorbed in the tale that he had not noticed his father's presence in the library until a heavy hand had fallen on his shoulder and a painful reminder of the forbidden status of these books was duly delivered.

But he had never forgotten the vampire who had outwitted his father, and Spike lore had become an almost hobby of his. The last he had heard the vampire with the chip had been working with Buffy and her friends in Sunnydale. He wondered how this down the rabbit hole version would compare to the demon he had read so much of in his youth.

'Who were you expecting, James bleeding Bond?' Spike sounded slightly exasperated, and Wesley couldn't prevent the sudden and worryingly manic giggle that escaped him.

'Come on, Xander, we haven't got all day. If Pussy and her girls find out I'm here, we're kitty litter.'

Wesley heard a key turn in the lock and the cell door swung open to reveal a slight figure dressed in black. The darkness of his clothing only served to emphasise the pale blonde of his bleached hair. Spike gazed at him coolly, then cocked his head to one side.

'Pryce. Got to say I'm surprised. After what went down in L.A. I didn't think you'd be looking to find Angel. But live and let live, and all that.' He jerked his head impatiently. 'You coming, or what?'

Wesley slid off the bed and followed the other man out the door of the cell. He wondered again if there was anyone in this bloody mirrorverse who didn't know what had happened in L.A. He was beginning to think it was probably required reading for entrance into college. "What happened in L.A. between Angel and Wesley 101 – the basics". Maybe he could get a copy of the syllabus.

In the dimly lit corridor he saw Xander slumped against the wall, his arm curved protectively around his midriff. Spike went to him; carefully wrapping an arm around his side and running his fingers over his ribs.

'Broken again?' His voice was now roughly tender, and Xander leaned into the gentle touch, his body sagging a little. He managed to shake his head.

'Just bruised this time. She had a new toy to play with.' Xander looked over at Wesley, with unexpected empathy.

'You okay, Pryce?' Spike turned his gaze briefly to Wesley, who waved away the sympathy with the bandaged hand.

'As Xander says, just bruised. Although I have a feeling she has more sinister plans for me.'

'All the more reason for us to get out of here. Are you good to walk, Xan?'

A brief nod, and Xander pulled himself upright, still clinging to Spike's shoulder for dear life.

Spike supported him with one arm and then looked down at his feet, clearing his throat nervously.

'Er… what about dancing?'

* * *

He should never have agreed to this. It would never work. It was all a horrible, terrible mistake and he should just go back to his cell and wait for Faith to come and torture him some more. It couldn't be any worse than this.

He glanced over at the others, who were putting the finishing touches to their costumes. All three of them were dressed in black tuxedos and Spike was biting his tongue in concentration as he tied the bow tie under Xander's chin.

'Are you sure about this, Spike? I really am the most dreadful dancer.'

'You couldn't be any worse than Angel, honestly.' Spike adjusted the tie expertly and ran a hand over his own slicked back hair. 'Nothing to it, Pryce. Just follow my lead and try and stay in time with the beat.'

The mention of Angel prompted him to boldness. 'What happened to Angel? He was here with you before, yes?'

Spike fixed him with a look, as if weighing something in his mind. Finally he gave a small shrug and answered.

'They came for him. That English guy with all the issues.' A pause. 'The one that had the big history with Angel.' He glanced up expectantly.

Wesley had no clue who Spike was talking about. 'This Englishman, does he have a name?'

The look Spike threw him was of disgusted disbelief.

'Fine, Pryce. You want to play it that way, that's fine with me.' He went back to fiddling with Xander's bow tie.

Wesley sighed inwardly. He was never going to find out what had happened in L.A. if he got this reaction each time he tried for information. He adjusted his own tie and eyed himself in the mirror. Xander appeared behind him, a conciliatory smile on his lips.

'Got to lose the glasses, Pryce. They don't really fit the secret agent look.' He leaned in and removed the spectacles carefully. A huge dizzying wave of terror suddenly engulfed Wesley.

_the__ slick of blood sliding through his fingers and the smell of dark wet earth cradling his cheek _

'Pryce! Hey, Wesley!'

The voices seemed far away, rough with panic and unplanned solicitude. Wesley opened his eyes and found himself sitting on the floor of the dressing room, curled against the wall. His glasses lay discarded on the floor, one lens now cracked beyond repair.

'You okay? You zoned out on us there for a minute.' Xander offered him his hand and Wesley took it gratefully, pulling himself to a standing position.

'I'm fine. Really.' He brushed his hand over his lapels, obscurely embarrassed by the unaccustomed concern. 'We're all ready, then?' he said, determined to deflect their attention away from him.

'As we'll ever be.' Spike slipped a small snub-nosed gun into the waistband of his trousers. Wesley remembered the forcible removal of his own Walther PPK earlier in the evening.

'You wouldn't happen to have another of those, would you?' he asked.

Spike reached over to the dressing table and opened a drawer, fishing out two identical guns.

'Props.' He sounded apologetic. 'That's the best I can do. You'll just have to look convincing.'

Wesley slid the gun into the holster at his waistband and pulled his jacket across. He truly wasn't sure he could do this. Spike had explained the routine, and he vaguely remembered watching the show in the sixth form common room at school. But if their escape plan depended on an accurate performance of the strip routine, then he should prepare himself for a life of captivity.

* * *

'Once upon a time...'

The lights were blinding, the heat almost unbearable, and the raw scent of pheromones in the room was positively feral. These were women who knew exactly what they wanted.

'There were three beautiful boys who went to the Police Academy, and they were each assigned very hazardous duties…'

Wesley swung his hips in what he hoped was a teasingly seductive manner, and pulled his fake gun out of his holster. There was a frighteningly animalistic howl of pleasure and the crowd surged closer to the stage.

'But I took them away from all that, and now they work for me. My name is Charlie…'

On cue, the music began and Spike gyrated to the centre of the stage, pulling the bow tie from his neck and tossing it into the undulating mass. There were screams as the garment was ripped in two.

Wesley swallowed and began to undo his own tie. He shouldn't really have worried about the whole dancing scenario. They weren't exactly fussy about the routine. All the crowd really wanted was naked Spike, Xander and Wesley. And they didn't much care how they got that way.

Spike was the most convincing of the three of them. He actually seemed to be enjoying the attention, and was playing to the crowd, sliding his jacket off his shoulders slowly, then trailing the garment across the stage. Xander was performing the routine mechanically, his eyes glazed as if blanking out the actual experience. But at least he looked semi-professional. Wesley was aware that he looked completely ridiculous. He had managed to remove his tie and jacket, and was now working on his trousers. Unfortunately he had forgotten about his shoes.

One trouser leg was now completely entangled around his oxford brogue, hampering his progress considerably. Spike removed his own trousers effortlessly and flung them into the crowd, then threw Wesley a look of sheer exasperation. Wesley lip-read his instruction as 'Shoes off, you bloody idiot,' and returned a hapless 'What do you think I'm trying to do!' just as several spectators decided on some impromptu audience participation. Wesley landed on his backside with a bump and was currently being hauled to the edge of the stage by the hem of his trouser leg.

'Help me!'

His plea went unheard, but the utter desperation in his face must have been obvious, as Spike frowned in frustration and pulled his gun, firing a couple of rounds into the air.

The effect was immediate and profound. The initial hush that came over the audience at the sound of gunfire was quickly abandoned in favour of outraged disapproval. The doors at the top of the auditorium opened and several leather cat-suited female security personnel entered the room, carrying what appeared to be laser guns. They raised their weapons and aimed towards the stage.

Wesley managed to fish the cigarette case out of his trouser pocket and deflect the laser beam that was directed at him. The beam ricocheted off the highly polished surface and connected instead with the huge chandelier in the centre of the ornate ceiling. There was an almighty crash as a several hundred kilos of brass and crystal landed directly on top of the security guards.

'Nice one, mate!' Spike seemed to be in his element, dressed only in shirt and boxers, alternating between firing his gun at the few remaining security guards and punching anyone that got past the bullets. Even Xander seemed to have woken up, and was swinging his fists at the now less than enthusiastic crowd. The auditorium was in disarray. Most of the male waiters had taken advantage of the attack and were now whacking security guards over the head with their trays.

Wesley struggled with his recalcitrant trousers and finally managed to pull them up around his waist. He buttoned them quickly and turned to see Spike firing a discarded laser gun with gleeful abandon.

'Best fun I've had in ages,' he mouthed, and tossed Wesley the pistol he'd been using. Then he jerked his head and motioned for him to move closer.

'Angel's in L.A. I was going to go rescue him, but I had to come back for Xander first. You know how it is…' he smiled knowingly at Wesley and pulled a card out of his shirt pocket. 'They're holding him here.'

Wesley took the proffered card and placed it in his own pocket. 'Thank you. What about you?'

Spike waved his hand at the scene of wanton destruction around them and grinned. 'Think we've got unfinished business here. Some old scores to settle.'

Buffy and Faith. Fair enough. Wesley grabbed his jacket and held his hand out to Xander, who gave it a friendly slap.

'Good luck, Pryce. And be careful.' Wesley read something in the dark eyes that he didn't quite understand, but this wasn't the time for deep and meaningful exchanges.

'Cover me,' he yelled above the whine of the laser beams. The others nodded and he jumped off the stage and ran out of a door at the side of the auditorium.

He was in a corridor, some sort of emergency exit, he presumed. All he had to do was find a door to the alleyway behind the casino and he would home free. He rounded a corner and realized there was another proviso for domicile liberty. That he would not run face first into Pussy Willow.

'Mr Pryce. You're leaving so soon? Just when the fun's beginning.'

She was putting up a convincing display of bravado, but he could tell the revolt in the auditorium had shaken her. He summoned up all his courage and pulled out the gun Spike had given him.

'Step away from the door, Pussy.' He kept his voice low, in an effort to hide the tremble he knew was there.

She curled her lip in a sneer. 'Oh my, what a big gun you've got. You've got me shaking in my boots.'

She slapped the gun out of his hand and it skittered to the floor several feet away.

'You men are all the same. Hiding your impotence behind pathetic phallic symbols.' She took a step towards him, her breath suddenly on his cheek. 'Just so you know, I'm not impressed. Haven't been for some time.'

He wasn't sure what made him do it. Perhaps it was the last shred of his sanity going for the big finish before it left the building completely. He seized her hair firmly and pulled back, forcing her to lean away from him. Then slid his other arm under her leather clad waist and held her steady.

'Oh, do be quiet, Pussy,' he admonished, planting his mouth over her protestations and kissing her firmly. When he pulled back, she was silent for a few moments, her cheeks almost as red as her hair.

'How dare you… I didn't… I mean… that wasn't… you shouldn't… you think you're very clever, don't you?' she finally finished, and she couldn't prevent her hand fluttering up to her lips.

Wesley pushed the emergency exit open and stepped into the cool night air. She made no effort to stop him. He turned to her, kissed his hand, and mimed blowing it to her.

'Actually, yes.'

He turned and headed back towards the parking lot. Wondering what the hell he was going to find in L.A., then comforting himself with the thought that whatever it was it couldn't possibly be any stranger than anything he had already endured.

On consideration, it was more of a prayer than a thought, really.


	8. Live and Let Die

**TITLE:** From L.A. With Love

**AUTHOR:** Eloise

**RATING:** PG13

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** through episode 4.2 – Ground State

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Chapter 8. Title nicked from Ian Fleming. This was a while coming, work has been hectic and although I had this planned out, there were a lot of loose ends that needed tying. I hope I got them all. I have really enjoyed writing Bond!Wes and will miss him very much!

**Chapter 8: Live and Let Die**

He stood at the edge of the motor launch, the gentle coastal current lapping at the side of the boat. It was the only sound since Gunn had cut the engine about a quarter of a mile ago. They had planned this carefully, using nautical charts Wesley had no reason to find familiar, and Gunn now moved the rudder to guide their drift.

'You ready, English?' he spoke softly, as if anything above a whisper might be overheard.

'As I'll ever be,' he replied, and turned to smile at the other man.

Gunn was standing at the ship's wheel, fingers resting lightly on the dark wood.

'You sure this is the place?' His brow furrowed slightly as he squinted across the bay, a fingernail moon barely reflected in the swaying water. 'I don't see anything.'

'Spike's map was unambiguous. And I can't imagine they would advertise their existence.'

What was he expecting? A periscope topped with a flag reading "Spurt Headquarters: serving evil since 1970"?

'No. You're right. It's just… well, you're on your own. I can't go with you. The Powers that be said it had to be you alone.'

Wesley turned to stare at him. 'The Powers that Be?'

'Yeah, man. Giles. The company, you know? Said you're the only one that can do this. Don't understand it myself. Don't see why I can't help you… especially after what happened…' his voice tailed off, and Wesley could see him trying to avoid his eyes.

'What happened?'

Gunn would tell him. Gunn was a friend, a man you could trust. He wouldn't lie to Wesley. Gunn turned to him, and his face was sharply defined despite the insipid moonlight. Lines of anger at his mouth, his eyes glittering darkly.

'Don't do this, Wesley. I don't have time.'

_tight__ hot anger curled in his stomach, throat razor-blade raw, the bottle seized in slick fingers and tossed across a room_

'We don't have time.' Said with a harsh finality which forbade further questioning.

Wesley grabbed the handrail and clung on desperately, fighting the dizziness that threatened to topple him into the ocean. What had he done? He looked deep into the black depths and wondered if Angel was down there. Was hit by such a strong feeling of déjà vu that he actually dropped to his knees on the hard wooden deck.

Gunn was suddenly beside him, pulling him up by his elbow, shaking him not unkindly.

'Hey, there. Come on, Wes. You've got to focus. Saving Angel.'

Wesley gave a high-pitched manic laugh. 'Oh, yes, saving Angel. It's always about Angel.'

Gunn's hand was still on his arm, patting him tentatively, the way one would quiet a spooked horse.

'It's the mission, Wes. It's what you have to do.'

Wesley looked up at the sky, at the glowing crescent of the moon, at the stars which suddenly seemed to glitter more brightly.

'I'm so tired, Charles.' If he could just rest now, close his eyes and sleep for a while…

'No!' Gunn's voice was loud in his ear, his grip on his forearm painfully tight. 'You can't give up, Wes. You have to keep going. For the mission. For Angel. _For yourself._' The last words were whispered so quietly Wesley wasn't actually sure he'd heard them.

He straightened up, and squared his shoulders, as if Gunn's words had renewed him, given him the strength he needed to continue. He could do this. He could save Angel. He just wondered who the hell was going to save him. 

* * *

He removed the aqualung and unzipped the wetsuit he had worn over his clothes. Dark long-sleeved cotton knit shirt and black trousers. He undid a small waterproof rucksack, removed a pair of shoes and slipped them on, then put the half-full mini aqualung into the bag. The silver laser pen Fred had given him went into an easily accessible back pocket and he shoved the folded wetsuit into what he imagined was a torpedo tube. He was ready.

Entering the undersea lair of SPURT had proved disturbingly easy. He had been intercepted only by a few inquisitive dolphins, who had nudged him gently and then passed by, clearly considering him no threat. There were no frogman guards around the underwater perimeter, no harpoon wielding minions ready to turn him into shark bait. But even as Wesley made his way silently along the dark corridor, he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

He kept a silent count in his head of the doors he passed, trying to mentally recall the plans Gunn had shown him of the headquarters. They had decided that Angel would probably be held in one of the mid level rooms, sandwiched between the lower levels where the desalination plant and power source were situated, and the upper decks, which were far too accessible through the glass bubble dome.

He had reached twenty-three when he heard it. A tiny sound, hardly more than a whimper; it appeared to be coming from door twenty-four. He stopped outside and tried the handle very carefully. It did not give, but the whimper from inside rose in pitch a little. Okay then.

He unscrewed the cap of the pen, and fiddled with the dial on the laser, then aimed it directly at the door lock. There was a hum of energy and the laser connected with metal, heating it till it softened and glowed dark red. With a final crackle, the lock became useless, and the door clicked quietly open.

The cell was dark. Not the dark of the night above the waves, where the lights of the city were always reflecting back to earth. Not even the dark of the midnight ocean, where bright stars glittered on silver scales of schools in the tide.

No. This was the dark of cupboards under stairs, of places where the light could not reach. This was the dark of unspoken fears and private nightmares, the dark that swallowed you whole.

He shivered and stepped into the cell. He fought the hammering of his heart, finally managing to control his shallow arrhythmic breathing. It was therefore somewhat disconcerting to hear the rapid panic-filled gasps which continued in the cell. For a moment he was gripped by the thought that this was not Angel; Angel did not breathe, and then he remembered that everyone else in this mirrorverse was human rather than demonic, so it was fairly likely that this version of Angel would be too.

'Angel?'

He kept his voice low, and tried to sound as calm as possible. There was no discernible reply, but a gasp led him towards a wall. The dim light emanating from the outer corridor outlined pale wrists fixed to the wall by wide metal restraints. He twisted the dial on the pen once again, and a thin shaft of light pierced the gloom, the cuffs finally falling uselessly to the wall. Now released, a heavy body slumped against him, and Wesley felt the strange sensation of another's heartbeat twinned with his own.

'Angel? Come on, we've got to get out of here.'

He half-dragged, half-carried the other out into the relative illumination of the corridor, and propped him against the wall.

Angel looked terrible. He was pale, paler than Wesley had ever seen the vampire, and looked as if he was near starvation. The edges of his ribs were well defined under Wesley's fingers and his eyes were so sunken as to appear almost black. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and Wesley suddenly realized he was dehydrated. He reached into his satchel and produced a canteen of water. The dark eyes reacted to that, and Angel opened his mouth a little, but was unable to produce any intelligible sound.

'Ssh, it's okay. Don't try to talk. Just drink.' Wesley held the canteen at an angle, so that the water trickle could be easily controlled. But Angel was desperate and he reached up and gripped Wesley's forearm firmly, tipping the bottle higher.

_pain__, sharp and clean and vivid lanced his arm and then strong suction that was penance and punishment and pleasure_

Wesley jolted his arm away from the grasp easily and swayed briefly on his feet.

'No, too fast, Angel. You'll make yourself sick. You must take it slowly.' There was no answer from Angel, but he raised his head and looked directly into Wesley's eyes. And there was an anger there that made him shiver.

'It's for your own good. Honestly.'

'Oh, now, isn't this touching. The errant knight come to rescue the brother he betrayed.'

Lilah leaned casually in the doorway, watching them with interest, while several minions frolicked about in the corridor behind her, fiddling with an assortment of deadly weapons.

'Now, then, Mr Pryce, it's about time you met the boss.'

* * *

If they did intend to kill him tonight, Wesley mused; he hoped the afterlife treated him as well as it had Richard Wilkins. Or indeed the man that currently sat at the table in front of him. He was looking extremely well for a man who had been the oldest vintage at Darla and Drusilla's lawyer tasting party.

He swung the high wing-backed chair round to face him, then clasped his hands formally on the pointlessly vast expanse of desk in front of him.

'So, Mr Pryce, we finally meet.'

'Er… yes, Mr Manners.'

'That is but one of my many pseudonyms. Here I am known only as Blowhard, head of the Special Unit for Revenge and Torture.'

It was something of an effort, but Wesley managed to meet the man's eyes without collapsing into hysterical laughter.

'And I see you've already met my number one. Triple X. I gather you two know each other quite intimately.' There was a strange little strangled sound from Angel and Lilah gave a Cheshire cat grin.

'I… we… that is to say…she…ow!' His voice rose to an uncontrolled squeak as Lilah ran her nails over Wesley's backside, pinching him firmly.

'Oh, yes, Alexei and I are very familiar with each other,' she purred silkily. 'Sorry about the little going-away present I left in your bed.'

'Oh, yes, you sound so apologetic,' he retorted sarcastically. She smiled again and stroked a fingernail down his cheek.

'But I am. I'm really going to miss Anansi.'

'Enough of these pleasantries.' There was a note of impatience in Blowhard's voice. He clapped his hands imperiously. 'Nob-job!'

To Wesley's eternal gratitude, this was not a request directed at him, but a call for another's presence. A small, immaculately dressed gentleman of oriental origin entered the room, and approached the desk with a truly impressive display of obsequiousness. Wesley vaguely remembered his name as Park. Gareth, or was it Kevin? A low level real estate lawyer with Wolfram and Hart.

'Ah, Nob-job.' Blowhard smiled in a fatherly way, which set alarm bells ringing in Wesley's head. 'Gentlemen, this is Nob-job, my head of security.'

Park opened his mouth to speak, just as Lilah placed her hand on his arm. 'Unfortunately, Nob-job is mute.' Park's eyes glowed black with anger, but he didn't dare contradict his superior.

'Yes, Nob-job is responsible for security here. Making sure we don't allow intruders, keeping prisoners under lock and key, that type of thing.' Blowhard's voice was pleasantly calm.

Park was beginning to back away from his boss, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

Blowhard shook his head with a paternal displeasure that Wesley found uncomfortably familiar.

'Oh, Nob-job, you disappoint me. You know we don't tolerate failure in this organization.'

With that, Blowhard slipped his hand under the desk and the floor under Park's feet fell away. The man made a silent lollipop-shaped 'o' of surprise and disappeared, his final destination revealed in a sudden splash, followed by the violent threshing of water.

'Such a shame. I was really hoping to keep the sharks hungry.' His smile was mild and innocuous, and sent tendrils of pure dread around Wesley's heart. He now understood why this man had been head of Special Projects at Wolfram & Hart.

'Ah, well, he'll have whetted their appetites. Sushi before the entrée.'

'I take it we're the main course?'

Blowhard nodded; a schoolmaster pleased with the deductions of a favourite pupil.

'You're right, Lilah. He is a clever boy. And we do have some vacancies to fill. What with Nobjob's termination; and then of course there's Lindsey. I'm thinking he could do with a hand about now.' He paused and fixed them with a steely glare. 'What do you say, Mr Pryce? Care to join us?'

Wesley fought the trembling in his knees and raised his chin defiantly. 'Never. I'd never betray my friends.'

Blowhard's laugh was chilling. 'Oh, but you have. Every man has his price, if you'll forgive the pun. And you've already paid yours, as your friend here will confirm.'

What the hell was he talking about? Wesley turned to look at Angel, who was staring at Blowhard, his face ashen. But he did not speak.

'No? I can't persuade you?' Wesley shook his head once, very firmly. 'Very well.'

He pressed another button on his desk, and a metal panel in the wall slid open to admit several heavily armed henchmen. Wesley eyed their weaponry and then glanced again at Angel, who appeared to be having trouble remaining upright.

This was not going to end well.

* * *

There was something about being strung up over a tank of shark-infested waters which brought out the worst in Wesley. Made him sound horribly shrewish and childishly petulant, when what he truly wanted was to be strong, silent and stoic. Like Angel. He wasn't sure if Angel was being heroic, or if his silence was simply the result of a physical inability to speak. Whatever the reason, Angel was quiet in the face of certain death, while he was almost whining in annoyance.

He supposed that one specimen didn't really constitute shark-infested waters, but as Blowhard had so helpfully explained, the other sharks had gorged on fillet of flunkey. Wesley looked down at the sleek angles of the predator slicing through the water, and realised that one tiger shark was more than enough to finish them off.

'And as the acid eats through the remains of my unfortunate head of security…'

Here Blowhard paused to smile at the irony of his choice of title for the decapitated corpse which now floated in a tank of mild sulphuric acid.

'… the counterbalance will be lessened and you will drop inch by inch until you are fully immersed. And the more you struggle, the more appetizing you become.'

Wesley looked up at their bound wrists; the rope already reddening, cutting off his circulation. It wouldn't be long before the first drops of blood hit the water. He was thoroughly pissed off.

'Really, Blowhard. What do you hope to gain by this? Do you expect me to talk?'

Blowhard looked directly at him and smiled nastily.

'Talk? Why no, Mr Pryce. I expect you to die.'

And with a final well-practised grin he turned on his heel and was gone.

Wesley sighed and made a few futile attempts to loosen the ropes around his wrists. He felt the bite of the rough hemp against his skin, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, the rope slackened imperceptibly.

'Angel!' he whispered urgently, the ghost of a plan forming in his mind. 'I think I may be able to loosen the ropes enough to get one hand free. But you'll have to hold my other hand. Do you think you can manage that?'

There was no answer. Tied as they were, back to back, it was impossible to see Angel's reaction to his request.

'Look, just squeeze my fingers if you understand.' A jolt of hot pain shot through him as Angel laced his own fingers though his battered hand, and he gave a high pitched squeal which should have embarrassed him more than it actually did.

'Ow! Okay, I'm going to try and pull my hand free.'

It was painful beyond description, but he finally managed to slip his hand free. Angel grabbed his other hand firmly, and Wesley felt the bones in his wrist begin to separate as his remaining hand supported the full weight of his body. He gritted his teeth and shoved his hand into this pocket, finally retrieving the laser pen.

He grunted with exertion and twisted his body round slightly, the nerve endings in his forearm shrieking with agony.

'Right. Now, um, you keep holding on to me, while I free my other hand.' There was no reply, but the cool hand clamped tighter around his own. He directed the laser beam upwards, praying that he didn't carry out another accidental amputation. A few moments later he felt the rope jerk and break, and he was gripped tightly.

So far so good. He now had both hands available, but was not exactly sure how he would carry out the next part of his lunatic plan. It had seemed simple enough when he pictured it in his mind. He reached round to unfasten the satchel on his back, but the angle was all wrong, and all he succeeded in doing was dropping the contents of the bag into the tank below.

The water churned violently, and the tiger shark made short work of the canteen and the neoprene canvas. The mini aqualung, however, proved more of a challenge for the fish.

It was perfect. Wesley wriggled round to face the beast, one hand gripping Angel's, the other he used to place the laser pen between his teeth to hold it steady while he adjusted the dial.

Both their arms were tiring now, and the main rope to which Angel was still attached was descending little by little towards the surface of the water, as their gory counterweight gradually dissolved in acid. Wesley glanced over to the tank, in time to see a rather chewed arm detach itself from the torso.

The rope dropped. The swift movement took Angel by surprise and he clutched at the rope above, letting go of Wesley's hand. Somehow, by sheer luck, Wesley managed to wrap his legs around Angel's midriff as the momentum of the drop carried the rest of his body downwards.

He was now hanging upside down, his legs wrapped around the middle of Angel, his hands and head swaying a few feet from the water. The laser pen was sinking slowly to the bottom of the tank.

'Oh, bloody buggering hell!' he began, then added a few more fairly descriptive epithets to fully describe his feelings on his current predicament.

'There's something about a man swearing in an English accent that just gets me hot.'

He focused on the not unpleasing figure of Lilah Romanova, who stood at the edge of the tank, his Walther PPK aimed at his head.

'Oh, go ahead; put us out of our misery.'

She cocked the pistol and fired.

Perfect shot.

The bullet ripped into the pressurized mini aqualung and the device and attached shark exploded with impressive force. Wesley bore the brunt of the explosion, essence of rotting fish enveloping him entirely, as chunks of shark splattered his face and torso. He untangled his legs from Angel's waist and dropped into the tank, diving deep enough to avoid the unpleasant chum which now floated on the surface of the pool.

He made it to the edge of the tank, and accepted the perfectly manicured hand that was offered.

'Lilah…I…er…not that I'm not grateful or anything, but why?'

She placed her finger over his lips and shook her head, a small smile on her face.

'No time for that, now, Wesley.' She motioned with her head. 'Angel still needs saving. Or had you forgotten?'

He turned and saw his friend still suspended from the rope, watching them with dark eyes.

'God, no. I hadn't forgotten.'

He ran to the other side of the tank and grabbed the rope, bracing himself as he countered the full weight of the other man. He lowered him gently into the water, then used a convenient placed book hook to pull him to the side.

'Angel, are you alright?' He worked at the knot above the wrists with aching fingers, and finally the rope slackened and Angel was free. But he was definitely taking this taciturn brooding thing a bit too literally.

'What's wrong? Can't you speak?'

Angel shook his head, and Wesley was not sure if it was in agreement or denial. Beside them, Lilah was clicking the safety back on to the Walther.

'Rather ironic, really. Christ saved by his Judas. Now get your asses moving, before Blowhard realizes you've escaped.'

She slipped her hand into her own pocket and produced a small computer chip.

'Here. That will access one of the mini subs. I'll make sure you escape undetected.'

He took the proffered chip and the gun and put them into his hip pocket. Lilah gave him a wickedly seductively smile and drew him close, her warm breath millimetres from his ear.

'Oh, Wesley, is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?' she purred, setting his nerve endings on fire.

He pulled away, his hand on her shoulder. 'Lilah, why?'

She did not answer immediately, stepped back and dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze. 'Let's just say it's for old time's sake, Wes.'

'Come with us.'

He had no idea why he said it. But something in him wanted to believe in her, to believe in the possibility that she could be saved.

She laughed, and the sadness in her voice made his heart ache. 'Don't be stupid, Wesley. You know I can't. My place is here. With Evil Incorporated. I have obligations, deadlines to meet…'

He grabbed her hand roughly and kissed her. Hard enough to bruise.

'Come with me.' No longer a request, but an order.

'Wesley.' Patiently, sincerely. 'You know I can't. Stop asking me. Please.'

It was the please that did it. He released her, and she ran her hand through her hair, shrugging her shoulders back a little too nonchalantly. She tossed him a too bright smile, and kissed the tips of her fingers to him.

'Don't go thinking about me when you're gone…'

_'I wasn't thinking about you when you were here'_

The strange bitter words floated in his mind like a foreign language he had learned a lifetime ago. He reached over and placed his hand on her forearm.

'Thank you, Lilah.

'Go on. I'll make sure he's kept busy. I'm very good at distractions.'

Wesley looked at her in genuine admiration.

'Oh, Triple X, of that I have no doubt.'

* * *

She was true to her word.

They had no trouble finding the sub and making their getaway. They had now surfaced a few miles from the agreed rendezvous point, and Wesley had sent a signal for Gunn to meet them there.

Angel sat silently in the cramped cockpit of the sub, and his lack of communication was starting to worry Wesley. Perhaps the prolonged dehydration had done irreparable damage to his vocal chords. He moved closer to better examine his throat.

'Angel, can you speak? Do you think you could try?'

His mouth worked for a few moments and then finally his voice came in a rough rasp that sent a shot of pain across Wesley's throat.

'Happy now?'

There was no mistaking the animosity in his friend's voice, even in that harsh whisper.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you…'

'Bit late for that, isn't it, Wesley?'

Wesley leaned away from him, shocked by the hostility in his eyes. 'What do you mean?'

Angel laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.

'You've forgotten already? '

And then Wesley got it. This was the thing, the unspoken terrible thing that had occurred between him and Angel back in LA, back before his accident, the thing that everyone alluded to, but no one ever actually told him about.'

'What happened, Angel? I don't remember, honestly. I woke up from the accident and I'd forgotten everything that happened in LA.'

The laugh this time was disturbingly unhinged.

'You don't remember? Stealing my son? Betraying me to Holtz and letting him take Connor into a hell dimension?'

He wasn't sure which part of that statement horrified him most.

'Connor is… um… was your son?'

'My baby.' Angel spat back viciously.

'And Holtz?'

'I killed his family. He swore an oath to avenge their deaths.'

So, to recap. He had kidnapped Angel's baby son and handed him over to his mortal enemy, who sent him into hell. He backed away from the other man.

'I trusted you, Wesley. And you took my son.' The voice was firmer now, strengthened by justified anger and pain.

'And you will pay.'

Before he could react, Angel's hands were at his throat, squeezing more tightly than was humanly possible. He scrabbled at the fingers ineffectually, choking desperately as his trachea was crushed.

_'You son of a bitch, you're gonna pay for what you did! You took my son!'_

The world darkened and little spots of light danced before his eyes.

_'You think I forgive you? Never! You're gonna die, you hear me?_

No use fighting any more. Angel was right. He was going to die.

_'You're a dead man, Pryce, a dead man!'_

He almost smiled at the sudden revelation.

He already was.

* * *

'There he is. Mr Wyndam-Pryce? Wesley?'

He could hear someone calling him from far away, as if he was swimming underwater, his ears deafened by pressure. He struggled to regain consciousness, fighting to make his way up from the depths of the ocean.

'Wesley, can you hear me? Come on, you're almost there…'

The voice was calm and soothing and he was so tempted to open his eyes and discover that he was finally at peace…

'We almost lost you there, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.'

Wesley gave in and opened his eyes, and was slightly disappointed to discover that he was not, as he had fervently hoped, in heaven, but in a depressingly familiar intensive care unit. On the upside, the doctor who was poking him with a variety of instruments seemed to be fairly optimistic about his condition.

'Yes, you gave us quite a scare. But your vitals have settled down now. How are you feeling?'

He opened his mouth and was pleasantly surprised to discover that his vocal chords were undamaged.

'Um… okay?' Was that an acceptable answer? He paused before he asked the next question. 'Er… would you mind telling me where I am?'

The doctor frowned slightly. 'You're in hospital, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.'

'No, I mean what country am I in?'

'Oh. USA. LA? Does that help?'

Wesley breathed a sigh of relief. 'Immensely, thank you, doctor.'

The doctor resumed his examination. 'You're a very lucky man, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. We almost lost you a couple of times.'

Wesley widened his eyes at his definition of luck.

'Oh, yes. You crashed just as you were arriving. The paramedics were bringing you in and you coded. Your other friends had just arrived.' The doctor shook his head, as if he was unable to comprehend it. 'Never seen anything like that before. Your friend, Gunn? Just started thumping you on the chest and screaming that you couldn't die, you couldn't give up. Took three security guards to pull him off you.'

Wesley blinked. Gunn didn't care any more. Didn't want to hear his side of the story. Gunn had tried to save him. It made no sense at all.

'They're all here, you know. Your friends. You have a lot of friends, you know. And some of them don't get on too well.' The doctor smiled at him. 'Thought we were going to have to call security when your girlfriend arrived.'

'My wha… my girlfriend?'

Another knowing smile. 'Miss Morgan? I think that was it. Your friend who called the paramedics wasn't too happy about her being here.'

'Angel's here?'

'Out in the waiting room.' The doctor paused, looked as if he was thinking something over. 'I shouldn't really allow this, but would you like to see them? Perhaps your girlfriend, and Mr Angel?'

Wesley nodded, glad that the choice had been made for him.

He heard them before he saw them. Voices low, but the venom uncontrolled.

'You shouldn't be here! Wesley doesn't need you! He's got friends to look after him.'

'And some friends your little team turned out to be. Turned their backs on him the first mistake he made. And you? Don't get me started on your little pillow talk!'

The doctor opened the door to his room reluctantly.

'I warned you. While you are visiting with him, you do not stress him. Do I make myself clear?'

Lilah pursed her lips and nodded. 'Fine.'

She threw the word out as a challenge to Angel, who folded his arms over his broad chest.

'Fine.'

Wesley wondered which of them would put out their tongue and go 'nah nah nah nah nah' first.

'Hey,' he whispered.

Immediately they were both beside the bed, Angel's hand on his right arm, Lilah lacing her fingers through his left hand.

'Wesley.' It was Lilah who spoke first; in a tone he had not heard from her before. 'You stupid idiot! What the hell did you think you were doing in that sewer?' She sounded about three words away from tears.

'Wes, you okay?' Angel's cool palm rested against the heat of his skin.

'I'm fine, really,' he said, addressing both Angel and Lilah. 'I did it, you know. The mission, I completed it.'

That shut them up, if only for a moment. Angel looked down at him, familiar confusion lining his brow.

'What mission? What do you mean, Wes?'

'Saving Angel.'

Lilah rolled her eyes. 'I knew it. You just can't keep out of trouble for five minutes!' She was actually waving her finger in Angel's face. 'You do it on purpose so he has to keep rescuing you!'

Angel looked even more mystified. 'I wasn't in trouble. I came looking for Wes in that sewer.'

'What sewer?'

Now they both turned to look at him, suddenly concerned.

'Don't you remember? You were in the sewer, battling the demon, and then you went off along one of the tunnels and hit the trip-wire.'

'No, no, we were in the submarine. You were telling me about Connor.'

'Um… no submarine, Wes. It was definitely a sewer.'

Lilah smacked Angel on the arm. 'Shut up! Can't you see he's confused?' She softened her voice and stroked the palm of his hand lightly with her fingers. 'It's alright. Do you know where you are?'

'I'm in hospital. In L.A. Definitely not in London.' The look of terrified concern that they exchanged then was priceless.

Angel cleared his throat nervously. 'Do you know… er… who you are?'

He couldn't resist. He just couldn't.

'Of course I do. The name's Pryce. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.' He paused dramatically. '007.'


End file.
